A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity
by Howlynn
Summary: John and Molly would have never noticed each other if Sherlock had not died. Sherlock asks her to watch over John. txt msg:What are you saying? You want me to shag John to cheer him up?-Molly has courted disaster before, but it's courting her now. Book One is complete. Book Two now in progress. Dark humor
1. Chapter 1

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warnings: lots of very dark sad boy but still a BAMF John, Some hopeless lost Sherlock later and one of my typical endings that will probably make some of you cringe. I am trying this out as a T, because there is nothing graphic - lots of subject but very little hottie bits - there are also some bits that you may not wish to eat during (she does deal with dead bodies you know) - there is a partially written suicide note for any trigger happy people - don't read that part. Oh and if you find the shedding of the uterine lining to be one of those unmentionable horrific things that must not be ever allowed in print, please grow up before you read this, grin. That's all I can think of to warn you about, but my stories do have an overall 'expect anything' sort of tingle -so you were warned.

The Statue in the Temple of Mendacity is a complete work. Book Two - Offerings in the Temple of Mendacity is Under this URL for ease of the author and reader. It is a WIP. If that offends you, please stop reading at The End until I finish Book two. Sorry for any confusion, but I had planned to stop. By the time I got to the intended ending, a whole second book and a nest of plot bunnies had infested this world. Thank you for reading. I'm glad you are here.

* * *

[ Molly, you promised.]

[I know but, he won't talk to me. I can't force him.]

[Of course you can. Try wearing something that doesn't look like it was owned by a blind grandmother and just landed on you. Use the card I gave you. Take Mrs. Hudson, she will show you what to buy. Kill two birds. I know she will be fine at least, but she is a possible in to JW.]

[You want me to dress like Mrs. H? You think John…never mind. I will call her. But that card was only for emergencies!]

[Mrs. H. dresses elegantly for her age. She would never advise you to wear things that belong on her. Give her a chance. She knows what is conservative yet fashionable. You are beautiful; you just never think you deserve to express it. Treat yourself, and it is an emergency.]

[You think I'm beautiful?]

[I always have.]

[Liar.]

[No. I don't have to see you in flattering garments and mocha plum lipstick to see you.]

[I dressed nice at Christmas and all you did was roll your eyes.]

[Not true. I kissed you.]

[Because you were being horrible. You're being that way now too.]

[J has not left the flat for 3 weeks. He has a gun and access to all sorts of deadly things. Please. Molly. He's a man. Remind him.]

[What are you saying? You want me to shag John to cheer him up?]

[God no. But it wouldn't kill you to smile at him a bit. Flirt just a little. Look pretty and take him for coffee. Just enough to remind him he's hungry. Then send him off on a nice hunting trip. A bit of snogging always cheers him right up.]

[Smile. I can do. Flirt? Maybe. There will be no Snogging. How dare you treat me like some tart on order.]

[Don't be ridiculous. All I am asking is that you get him out in some fresh air and remind him why he thinks he exists. He hasn't had a date in 7 months and he looks like a bag of bones. I am not asking you to do anything unseemly. You go out shopping, buy some nice things, splurge, Take a nice older lady to lunch or a spa, request her fashion advice, make her feel useful. Then use that to guilt John into taking you to dinner. Be charming. Make him feel like he's not boring. Kiss him on the cheek and wait to see if the procedure needs repeating. He's a fine hunting dog. Coax him out of the kennel and set him on the foxes. That is all he needs. I am not expecting you to pretend you're madly in love with him. He wouldn't buy that anyway.]

[God, you are a horrible man.]

[Have you read his blog?]

[I did.]

[Molly. If something doesn't change. This is all for nothing.]

[I will never be able to do this. You know I am ghastly at it. God, I couldn't even get you to take me for coffee with a bag of thumbs. What makes you think I will have any better luck with him?]

[Molly, you are quite good at it, in fact. I was just being… complicated.]

[It's fine. Nobody wants to date the creepy girl from the morgue. Certainly not a posh like you.]

[I am an idiot. John isn't. And the morgue bit was actually quite hard to resist. Your friendship mattered too much to chance the pain I would have caused you.]

[Lol. When …and I do say when, not if. I lose my job because of you. Will you still bother with me?]

[Oh God. Molly. He just posted again. Please, anything you want. Just do something.]

**_From the Blog of John H. Watson_**

**_Posted: 18 minutes ago_**

**_People keep stopping by, wanting things. I have no idea what to say anymore. I don't need anything. I don't want anything. I honestly don't care. I am just waiting. I have no reason to move on. Nobody needs to think they are responsible or that they can do anything to make this better. I don't care if I am pathetic and I don't care who disapproves of me. I am just asking to be left in peace. Can't everyone just let us both rest in peace? _**

[I just read it. It doesn't sound good, does it? Calling Mrs. Hudson now. I will do what I can but no promises.]

[Counting on you. Will be in touch soon.]


	2. Chapter 2

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly felt like a terrible person. It did make her feel better that she'd bought Mrs. Hudson the most divine perfume ever and she had treated them to hairdos, new makeup and thirty minute massages. She hated to admit that Sherlock was brilliant. Mrs. Hudson had made her feel special. She had fussed over colors and all sorts of labels that meant nothing to Molly. She insisted she try on things Molly thought were ugly until she was zipped in and then she and the garment transformed each other.

They did discuss John. Mrs. Hudson became her instant allied secret agent when Molly let it slip that she was thinking of asking him to take her to dinner.

"Oh would you? God. if there is anyone who can understand what he's going through, it would be you. I know Sherlock would be so disappointed in his poor John, but I haven't the heart to say mum to him. Set him off and I will be cleaning up a mess that will break my heart. I just know it. I have even started knocking these days. Used to just pop in. Always knew I was welcome. He just sits there. Like a lost little child. You should go right up there and ask him. He can't turn you down in this outfit."

Molly blushed and shared a conspiratorial giggle. "He has to take me out. I feel like a princess."

"Of course he does, dear."

Molly did actually want to go out on a nice quiet date. John would be perfect; there was no pressure because it was just John. John was sweet. John was nice. Was.

John answered the door and blinked without recognition. "Yes, may I help you?"

"John?" She looked down and blushed. "What do you think?"

His eyes squinted and his arms crossed. "About what? Exactly?"

Molly's smile fell. "John? I…I. "

"What is it you want? I am busy. I have a life, not much of one, but I don't need any more of you people knocking on my door…"He stopped as a tear crawled down her face. "Molly?"

She nodded. "I wanted to invite you to a dinner date to celebrate that…"She swallows and takes a deep breath. "I looked like someone who might be able to get one," she finished quietly.

"My God, what have you done? I didn't even know you! Come in?"

Molly smiled, so far so good.

"Mrs. Hudson and I spent the day treating ourselves. But now I sort of feel that all dressed up and no place to go feeling and I was just wondering if maybe we could go to dinner?" she blurted out before she lost her nerve.

John's face said no instantly. "Look Molly, I appreciate the thought, but I am not interested. I'm sorry." He smiled politely. "You should take Mrs. Hudson," he added.

Molly spoke to the floor, "She's tired and her hip…from all the walking today. It's just dinner. I'm not asking for a real date or anything. Just a fun, friends type of thing. Just for fun?"

He sighs, and his stance widens slightly. "She put you up to this didn't she? God, I don't need this. Look Molly, I am the last person in the world right now who would be any kind of fun. I don't need this pity thing everyone keeps trying. I just want to be left alone. By you, and my sister and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and everyone who has some thought in their little do-good hearts that I need to set foot out of this flat and it is going to magically transform my life into some survivable happy place."

"But, I…"

"No. Thank you. But no. You look very nice and it was very nice of you…but you came to the wrong door looking for any measure of fun. I'm sorry. Don't take it personally," John says ushering her out the door and closing it behind her.

Molly stood on the landing in shock. Her phone buzzed. She dug in her purse and pulled out her phone, looking at the text.

[Don't give up. Appeal to his Captain Rescue side. Make him feel like a heel.]

Molly slipped the phone back in her pocket. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door again._

"Yes, Molly? I made myself perfectly clear."

Molly shook in fear. "Yes. I was just wondering if you would explain to me, what is so wrong with me?" She giggled and let some very real tears swell into her eyes. They were actually about Sherlock but she had to use what would work. "You see, I know it is something. But I don't understand. Nobody ever…unless they are murdering lunatics. And I always assumed it had to do with the fact I work in the morgue, which understandably limits my options, I suppose. I really thought that, with you, maybe just as friends, you could overlook that a little. I thought you wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with me. I spent all day, trying to look like – and you didn't even blink. Just No. So I thought maybe, if you could find it in your heart to tell me, like a doctor giving someone bad news, you could explain…and then I would know if it was something that could be fixed or if I need to face that this is my life. Without him. Forever?" Molly stood waiting for his answer, she didn't meet his eyes, but her shivering had gotten more pronounced and she tried very hard not to let the parts of the truth she had just revealed swallow her whole and make her race down the stairs in very genuine tears. She feels humiliated and the fact she is failing Sherlock and he is watching her be humiliated, had brought her one of those despair bombs that sometimes threatened her cheery demeanor, but which she rarely allowed anyone to see.

John sighs and looks at her. He shakes his head and stands aside. "Maybe you should come inside. Again. I will make us tea."

Molly nods and takes a seat on the edge of the couch. By the time John brought the mugs of tea in, she had herself mostly braced for whatever John would say to her. She had lots of practice hiding things from Sherlock and managing to push down her feelings until she was in the privacy of her own flat where only Toby, the cat, would see her cry.

John took his seat and sipped his tea, not knowing how to begin.

"You can just blurt it out you know? I'm used to that. I should have asked him, if I wanted the unvarnished truth. I'm not pretty, but I am not scary looking either. Do I smell or something? Must be the morgue chemicals and I don't notice them anymore."

John looked at her like he wanted to crawl under a rock, then his face just melted into a sad smile. He chuckled as she sniffed various parts of her body. As she looks up at him in confusion, he finally gave himself over to a hysterical sort of snuffling hiss kind of laugh. Molly waits patiently but his mirth was a little infectious.

"Oh boy." He finally got himself under control. "Sorry. You know I can't remember the last time I laughed. I really can't."

"Well, I guess that means I am at least a little fun. Or funny."

"Poor Molly, I've been an ass, haven't I?"

She grins. "Maybe a bit. I kind of have a type, I guess."

"Oh God. That's…" He laid his head back until tears came out this time.

Molly giggles and sips her tea. John takes a deep breath and doesn't move for a few moments like he is zoned out. Finally he looks over at her and sits up, really looking at her and she smiles politely, waiting for him to come up with another excuse to push her out the door.

"I can tell you one thing. Sherlock was a damned fool. You are a lovely, gentle, kind woman. You don't smell. But I lived with Sherlock by the time we actually met so I may be a bad person to ask. Been told this flat reeks, but I don't notice. I may be immune to odors at this point." His finger keeps going to his mouth as he speaks. It waves in the air to accent his words, then back to his lips, as he continues. "But. I did see you once, before and there was no lingering scent impression that would have made me wrinkle my nose. The truth is there isn't a damned thing wrong with you, Molly Hooper."

She clears her throat. "But you said no."

"Well yes. But it isn't about you. I am boring and I am not worth your time. I don't have a heart any more. He took it. So an evening with me would be, without doubt, the worst date you have ever been on." He smiles and there is a little spark of life in his eyes but it is fleeting and seems a bit like a ghost light in the distance.

Molly widens her eyes. "I dated Jim Moriarty. And I didn't date Sherlock, but spent more time with him than any other female, while he fell in love with you. So for you to have the honor as the worst date so far, well you should at least earn it if you want to claim it. I can't imagine how you would plan such. I think it would have to involve some sort of hospital stay at the very least."

John leans forward and giggles a bit again. He stops and looks up at her. "How did I not know you are so funny?"

Molly swallows. "I was always tongue tied around him. Or he made me tell the most horrible, inappropriate jokes because all I could think about was…sorry." She took a deep breath and looked away.

"All you could think about was how spectacular and unreal he was?" he said as if to the wind.

"Yes," she whispers.

"How long has it been since you went out on a date, Molly Hooper?"

"I bet you can guess. I am more than a little afraid of men in general and a lot afraid of my ability to pick them."

He makes a grunting noise and sips his tea as if he's considering it all. He balances his cup on his knee and stares off into the distance. His face goes from pleasant, to confused, to something a bit darker, though Molly has no idea what is taking place to make it happen. She sits quietly watching him expectantly.

"So why would you knock on my door? I've killed people. I have been in this flat slowly going insane for months. I have no job. Long past my prime. I'm short and you know my revolving door dating history. I'm not him. I am this close to suicide and you know it. So what possesses you to doll yourself up and knock on my door, twice. "

Molly hadn't expected to be put on the spot. She mumbled, "I'm not sure. You're nice. I think you are very nice, well most of the time."

His head turned and his eyes narrowed. "So a pity fuck? Is that where this is going? Someone put you up to this or you thought a little shag for the dead soldier might make him snap out of it? Is that your plan?"

Molly cleared her throat and felt her face burn. "I didn't plan that far ahead. No. I am not planning to…shag you. I said friends."

"Well you should plan, little Miss Molly. Because that is precisely where this will go. Take my word, I can turn into quite the charmer and you will regret it. You will think things are looking up and you will think you have made me a little better. I will be for a while. I will want to please you and you won't know what to do with it and then some little bit of you will start to hope and expect. But one day, my wait will come to an end. And you won't want to understand, but you already do. Probably the reason you are here. But when I follow him, and I will, just accept it, it is fact. It will hurt you more. The thing is, I won't care. So I have to ask you, why you would even consider sitting here and considering me as a potential anything." John's voice never raises and there is no anger in his words. But his calm, rational delivery makes her feel foolish again.

Molly opens her mouth to say something. She has no idea how to answer, but his words play out in her mind and she stands up. She takes her cup into the kitchen and her deer in the headlights face is plastered onto her expression as she walks back through the sitting room. "I was wrong. You are as cruel as he ever was. The thing is, he couldn't really help it, any more than I can help that sometimes I can't figure out how to say what I mean. This isn't one of those times. You win. I don't want to go out with you anymore. I didn't come here to be your …it doesn't matter. See, you are doing this, on purpose. I just wanted one bloody nice evening, with a nice man, who I thought might maybe understand a bit. But that man doesn't exist. This is who you want to be now. This is who he died for and when you do get around to it, you'll make it for nothing." She shakes her head and picks up her purse as she says her peace.

John stand and spins."You bitch. It wasn't my fault he died."

Molly opens the door to the flat and leans on it. "No. I didn't say it was your fault. I said he died for something. I wanted you to know. He didn't jump off the roof because he was sad and moping. He jumped because if he didn't, Jim had left orders to kill you and Mrs. Hudson and Greg. So you go ahead and blow your brains all over this horrible wallpaper. I will still be the one who makes your Y incision and I will probably cry when I get home. But that time won't matter anymore than this time. I will always remember that his John, made me feel nasty for bothering to give one piss about life and death. I can't make you feel anything; I never counted to anyone but him. I was stupid to want to spend one sodding minute here, because he cared about you so damned much. So much more than he ever could about me. I loved him longer than you. But he didn't die for me and I still wouldn't dishonor him like this." Molly waves her hand around the flat and then she turns and is rushing down the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

John stands there with his mouth hanging open. He hears Mrs. Hudson stomping up the stairs. "I hope you're pleased with yourself. I'm ashamed of you. That poor little girl had stars in her eyes all day, looking forward to having a nice boy compliment her. I encouraged her, thinking it would do you both some good. I always thought you kept him in line. Such language to that poor dear. And you some kind of doctor. You have no taste in women, young man. Best stick to your blokes. She is such a lovely girl too." Mrs. Hudson frowned and continued extoling the virtues of Molly all the way down the stairs, intermingled with hip complaints.

[I tried. Can't explain. He called me names! He told me that any date with him would end in a shag. I think I hate him right now. I forgot all my clothes at Mrs. Hudson's.]

[We can't give up on him.]

[I told him about the snipers.]

[What did he say]

[That may have been when he called me a bitch.]

[He didn't.]

[Molly, you misunderstood. He wouldn't.]

[Look, I am at my full humiliation quota for the day. Any more and I may be the one you have to purchase a headstone for because I know you would not bother to trouble anyone for me. So how about we just take a break and not subject the doormat to any more mud for this evening. You will say something and I just can't brush it off right now. ]

[You're wrong about that. I would bother.]

Molly sighs as she reads his last text, but didn't bother to answer. She is exhausted when she gets home and decides a lie in would be her sole plans for the next day. Her phone is put on the charger and she then turns it off. She heads to bed and stays there most of the next day, tears randomly interspersed with sleep.

The touch on her shoulder startles her and she blinks in befuddled wonder as she looks into the eyes of Sherlock. He takes one look at her, pulls her into his arms, laughing, and whispers softly, "You wouldn't answer me. I told you I would bother. I'm sorry he hurt your feelings."

She looked up at him in wonder. "You came home, for me?"

He looked at her and laughed again. "Yes, mostly. I wouldn't miss this face for the world. You look like a clown got sick all over your cheeks."

Molly brought her hand up to her cheeks, "Oh my god. My makeover. Bloody hell." She dashed to the bathroom and more curses were heard just before the shower started.

Sherlock was sound asleep by the time she exited her emergency makeup removal session. She let him sleep and cooked. He awoke to the smells of her Shepherd's pie which her land lady, Mrs. Brewerton had taught her to make from scratch.

They talked and she gave him the full run down on all things John Watson. By the time he left, she was calmer. He had pointed out that John didn't have anyone. Maybe it was his own fault at this point, because everyone had certainly tried, but they agreed that she would have to use other methods to help John survive until Sherlock could return. The next thing she knew, a long black car pulled up and swept him away again. She offered to go with him.

"I may not look particularly dangerous, but I can remove a human heart in about forty seconds when I have a mind to," she says softly as she hugs him and he allows it indulgently, just as he once had with Mrs. Hudson.

"I need you here. Even more. Show me your little pathetic broken kitty face? That's nice. Yes that should do it. He doesn't have a chance. Now, it came to my attention that the last proper kiss you have had belonged to someone we shall not name. I love John, but I want you to always remember that I care about you almost equally." Sherlock bent his head to Molly and his lips enveloped her and his kiss stole her very breath, making her knees weak and her eyes roll up in her head with delight. Sherlock smiled at her and planted an extra kiss on her forehead like a sigil of protection. Then he turned and was swallowed by one of those long black Jaguars that announced Mycroft Holmes in rather grand elegance.

Molly called Mrs. Hudson to retrieve her forgotten items from their shopping adventure. She invited her for lunch and they ate in a pub just around the corner. Mrs. Hudson apologized for John's behavior and Molly just shrugged acting like she couldn't care less.

"In my whole life, nobody ever called me that. Not ever. I dated a psychopath and even broke up with him. Jim tried to kill them, still called me after, and it never came to that. As far as I'm concerned, John doesn't exist."

"Shame. But I do understand."

John was standing at the top of the stairs as Molly exited Mrs. Hudson's flat. He cleared his throat and asked very calmly, "Molly? May I see you, up here for a moment?"

Molly turns and looks up at him using the exact face Sherlock made her practice. "Sorry. Not interested," she says quietly and quickly exits. She is lucky to get a taxi before he gets down the stairs. She carefully pretends not to notice him calling out that he only wants to apologize.

The next day at work, flowers arrive. 'Please forgive me, John'

She sets them on her desk and sends a text. Lestrade calls her later in the day asking if she would like to meet him and some other yard birds for drinks at a local pub to celebrate the retirement of Detective Inspector Herman Clutterbuck. Molly agrees, she knows the fellow who is retiring. He's very dull and sturdy but never had been impolite to her. She brought him a gift of gardening gloves and he smiled and thanked her by name.

John Watson makes a surprise appearance. He looks a bit sheepish and out of place as many people make a huge deal of welcoming him. Molly pretends not to notice and carefully shuffles around the room dodging him in such an obvious fashion that Lestrade even picks up on the game.

"Dare I ask why?" Lestrade muses in her ear.

"Oh. Hello. Why what?"

"Why you maintain as much space as possible between you and our most woebegone lost soul? He's been trying to talk to you all night."

"Oh. That. You might not speak to him either if I told you the truth. So let's just say we are not meant to occupy the same postal zone." Molly says and smiles up at Greg.

"You look very pretty. Care for a spin?" Lestrade deflects.

"Sure. I'd like that."

The music is slow and soft. Greg Lestrade makes small talk about cases then suddenly blurts, "Says he said somefing stupid. Just wants to apologize. Maybe do me a lemon and let him?"

"I feel a set up? Did he make you invite me?"

Greg grins his amiable little-boy-caught face as he looks up at the ceiling and groans a little. "Let's call it suggest. I about fell over when he agreed to show up. Said if you were here, he'd pop in. Course I am a cop so had to stick my nose in a bit farvver and he caved and told me what a utter wanker he'd been."

"Oh, it's fine. Hoping he will bugger off doesn't seem to be working."

"Thank you."

Molly sat at one of the tables alone. It didn't take long for John to ask permission to sit. Molly kept her face cool and waved her hand in a slightly Sherlock way conveying that she couldn't be arsed to care one way or the other.

John went through a very long rambling, not completely coherent speech. Molly looked over at him and said, "You were very mean."

"And I am dreadfully sorry. Dreadfully."

"Accepted. Now you can go away and not be bothered with me again." She acted bored. Who knew being such a wanker worked? Sherlock is a genius.

"I'd like to stay here, if that is ok. I don't want it like this."

"What do you want it like, John?" Molly asked in a distracted way.

"How did you know about the snipers?"

She fingers the edge of her glass. "Mycroft. Wasn't news to you. I could tell."

John fidgets uncomfortably. Then his head drops and his eyes focus a little and his body language changes. He leans in to her and takes her hand waiting for her to turn to him. "How do you feel about you and I getting so cabbaged that we have to make up a new word for the condition?" His voice is lower and seductive.

"It's me, actually," she says.

"Sorry?"

"How do you feel about you and me?"

He blinked, still confused. "I feel like I have been rude. Oh, grammar. Wow, that brings back…never mind. Look, I just wanted to make up for the other day, have a few drinks. That's all."

Molly smiles, "Tell our secrets and wake up wondering how two people who excelled in medical school could have made such pudding of their livers?"

"Something like that. Exactly like that. Every drink, a toast, to the tosser who put us here."

Molly laughs a little at that. "Warning. You get mouthy with me again, Dr. Watson, and I promise you, I can remove a man's heart in approximately forty seconds."

"Hmmm. Sexy. I can make a woman's orgasm last for thirty minutes." He says softly kissing her hand suggestively.

"Bollox. Don't forget there is a DR in front of my name too. I won't fall for that kind of man brag."

"Believe me or not. I have references."

"Who would not ever leave you, if that were remotely… possible."

"Who had to put up with a certain Consulting Detective cock blocking. Besides, I don't bother to do that for just anyone."

"Ah. There is the heart of the matter. I'm just Molly. Not special, so I get the drunken discount sex? I will stick to the discount drinky-poos."She said and tossed back her drink. John did too and slammed his glass on the table.

"Molly? Molly." John swept her hair from her face. "Kiss me."

"I am not good enough to date. That equals not good enough to snog. Besides, someone wonderful kissed me recently after your epic fail. I'm kind of holding on to it." Her fingers brushed her lips and she sucked the bottom one in. More drinks are delivered and she sighs, waiting for him to ask her out. He seems to be having some mental battle about it.

John steps back. He looks around the bar and finishes his drink. "Well, that settles that. Umm. Here. I don't know what was in my head but I hope you and your new friend can maybe use these."

She looks down at what he slides across the table. "L'elisir d'amore, the London Opera House? Wow. I will have to go shopping again."

"Probably. Enjoy." He said in a clipped tone and without another word turned and walked away. She picked up the tickets and looked at them. She glanced back up and searched the room. He had vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly made her way to the door but not before being stopped by four people for friendly less-than-sober goodbyes. By the time she was out in the night air and checked her phone, John Watson had disappeared. Baker Street was only four blocks away, and another six would take her to 221. It is early and the foot traffic was still on the busy side. She began walking.

By the time she arrives the lights were down upstairs. She stands on the street looking up for a long time. Finally she knocks on the front door. She hears movement, like someone coming down the stairs. John opens the door and looks startled. Molly didn't say a word, she steps in the door.

"You left and you didn't exactly explain these tickets. Why would you by me tickets?"

"For you and your new boyfriend. Simple?"

"Maybe. If I had one. So two is a waste."

"But you said someone kissed you and you wouldn't kiss me?"

"I usually go out with someone before I kiss them. Or at least get properly asked. He was sort of an exception. He gave me a pity kiss. You didn't ask me out, so I have no reason to kiss you."

John furrowed his brows and blinked several times. "Oh umm." He looked up the stairs and back at her.

Molly went up to the flat door and John stood in the entryway, completely flummoxed. She grinned and looked back at him. "I thought we were planning to get cabbaged?"

"Oh. Right. Um. Scotch is all I have about then, so if you'd prefer. We could go…" He said mindlessly walking up the stairs. He stops at the door and his shoulders slump. "Not what it looks like."

Molly picks up the piece of paper on the coffee table and reads it out loud as if reading a poem to the class. Her voice is steady but more in shock than because she is capable of dealing with the situation.

**_Everyone knew this day was coming. It is nobody's fault and nothing could have been done to prevent it, not any more. Knowing him, he has set the afterlife into pure chaos. He functions better with me by his side so this is just me taking my logical place. I belong with him and I'm only wasting my time and everyone else's trying to sift through these ashes. If he was a fake, this is what I deserve. If he wasn't, then this is where I belong. Either answer you want to fill in is fine. It's all fine._**

**_You all proclaim that you want to see me happy. Well, I am sorry, but this is me happy. I have been set down in a strange landscape without a map and I am just lost. I want to go home. I know where it is, but everyone seems to feel I have no right to choose. I must do the normal thing, the average thing. I must wander in the dark and live tortured every day, longing for home, because that is what you're supposed to say._**

**_I've always been a bit stubborn and I just have no fear of it because whatever is there or isn't there doesn't matter. He's there. I will take any imagined or never fathomed answer without complaint. Even if all that happens is that I wink out never to exist again. That frankly feels like a gift in comparison to one single hour here._**

**_Were we a couple? I have no idea. I love him. I never kissed him or even spoke of my feelings. It has come to be known to me that the man died for me. I don't think I have to ask any more if the feelings were returned. He died for me. Now I am going to do the same thing for him and I am not depressed or delusional in this decision. Of course I am gutted in sorrow, but I'm not a stupid man, I know this seems like the actions of an irrational fool. Blame that if you will then, but don't blame anyone else and certainly not yourselves. _**

**_All I am…_**

The letter ends and Molly stands silently. She tosses the letter back on the table. She crosses her arms and takes a deep breath before she speaks. "How is this not what it looks like then? Looks a lot like goodbye…to me. Gun on the table, note, insulin, barbiturates, morphine you plan ahead, I will give you that."

"There are sterile pack scalpels too. Slit my jugular before I shoot myself, right here." John says pointing at the back of his head. He grins and actually chuckles uncomfortably.

"You think it's funny?"

"God yes. You should see your face."

"Well, I will really be chuckling when I see yours neatly folded as I fire up my Stryker saw." Molly pulls out her phone takes a picture of his letter and begins texting.

"What are you doing?" John demands.

"MMph? Texting Mycroft and…" John takes her phone and throws it up in the air, as he grabs his gun, cocks it and fires. The phone explodes and the pieces land with a clatter. Molly screams involuntarily.

"Did you send the texts? Never mind. Why would you tell the truth to the man with a gun in his hand? This isn't anyone's business, Molly. It isn't your's either. Should I be expecting company? If so, I suggest you leave, unless you want to watch. It is my security blanket. Note isn't finished. Not finished! There are dangerous people on this block. This is part of my escape kit, by whatever method I deem necessary. If you have labeled me, I'm afraid you have forced my hand. Mycroft won't do to me what he did to Sherlock. I won't be.."

"You shot my phone." She squeaked.

John is quickly packing away all the items and he grins and says, "Phone had it coming."

Molly looks down in his duffle bag and tilts her head. "What is all of this? How many people are you going to kill?"

"Uhem. Or save. Doctor first, the assassin part is just a sideline." He is moving around the flat tucking things into the bag then sets it by the window in Sherlock's room. "So it's been 13 minutes. Either Mycroft is getting slow or you didn't actually send that text?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly sighed and shook her head. "You didn't give me time. I can't believe you shot my bloody phone!"

"Really?" John blows out his breath, and leans on her shoulder in relief. "That's. Good. So. Shall we cabbage on?"

"John, were you going to…tonight?" She hasn't caught up. "Why?"

"Ok. No. Possible. Probably no. Fuck if I know, " he says as he pulls out two shot glasses and sets them in place of the items she'd seen earlier.

He raises his glass and says, "To Sherlock." He slugs the liquor back in one swig. Molly does the same, making a face. She feels she needs it after walking in on who-knows-what here at 221.

Molly and John drink several shots and it is going to her head a little. She is no light weight but keeping up with Johnny's-gotta-gun was simply going to have her blacked out in less than an hour.

"Let's play 'Wit's End' for drinks?" she says as he fills her shot glass again.

John fills his glass, sets the now half- emptied bottle on the table and he smiled and shrugged, and then said in a confused tone, "I don't think I have ever heard of that one. How does it go?"

"Oh it's easy. We played at Uni all the time. First sit over here." She patted the couch and he moved next to her. "Two parts. One person asks a question…about anything…and usually there is more than one player, but this will still work. The person who asks the question touches the person they want to answer, which we only have each other for an option but so long as contact is maintained, the person being touched has to answer and keep talking without any distraction, it doesn't have to be the truth, it can be silly, or embarrassing or anything. But the idea is for the person answering to get the person that ask the question to laugh or stop talking because they can't think of anything to say, lose their wits. Between the touching and the scrutiny, the person who asked the question is trying to make the other lose their wits too. So the one who asks has to keep a straight face and the only thing off limits is tickling, because that makes most everyone laugh, and pain, such as pinching is ok too, but nothing that would harm, but in the meantime, the one being touched is trying to get someone else to laugh or be shocked with a funny, ridiculous or even a shockingly true answer. Whoever loses their wits first has to have a drinky-poo, then they get to ask next. Do you have a timer?"

"Yeah, I think I do. When you say touching though, give me some idea what that entails?"

"Oh it can be anything really, I mean you can't grope and molest the speaker, but my roomie was kind of noted for fanny slaps, but her best move was that she was a magician with neck rubs and nobody could keep speaking once she got hold of a knot. James Heckford had a secret weapon that he pulled out when he was losing badly, as in once he got a bit bashed, in that he had a bit of a footy-fetish and could make anyone jerk away or giggle when he'd lick toes, but he was pretty competitive and that was a bit extreme. Most people do something silly, but some use the serious approach. It just depends."

"What if I kiss you?"

"Well obviously that wouldn't work beings I have to talk. You can't tape their mouths shut or try to feed them or any of that sort of thing. It is mental power, which goes progressively south because of the drinking. Not physically preventing someone from carrying on, so to speak."

John smiled at her wickedly and shrugged, sitting back down and placing the kitchen timer between the glasses. "What happens when the timer goes off and nobody has lost their wits?"

"Well in a bunch of people, everyone drinks, to keep it interesting. Beings anyone not picked wouldn't have much fun otherwise. But with two, the turn just passes."

"Ok. You're going to lose, but we can give it a try, until I get thirsty. You go first. Ask me something." He holds his hands out offering her access and consciously pulling his face into a placid stoic mask.

Molly set the timer and held it while she thought. "Tell me the most frightening thing that ever happened to you as a child?" She set the timer down and held it until he began speaking.

"Well, let me think here for a second. Oh, there was a cat that lived next door and I was about ten, I think. My sister takes me out of the house one night to go peek through the curtains of these two old drunk men who lived up the way. They used to argue and at night they would be drunk and it was entertainment for half the neighborhood, because they did the most amazingly ridiculous things. Food fights, throwing things and the most creative and entertaining curses, ever to grace the day. This night they were being boring, just glued to the telly and sipping tea. We started home and there is the cat, having been run over. Anyway, Harry's torch lands on it and there is an eyeball of the poor…hey Ouch?" John grabs his chest in protest, absolutely speechless that her first move was a twisted nipple which he hadn't experienced since ATR.

"Drink," she says smugly.

John complies watching her and shaking his head with a small grin. "Playing like that are we?"

He resets the timer, his voice is low and silky as he asks, "Tell me your deepest darkest fantasy…about Sherlock." His eyes narrow waiting for her to react.

She takes a deep breath and nods for him to let go of the timer. "I have a lot of those, John Watson. Probably the worst is that he comes to the morgue in that silly coat of his and he doesn't say a word, just shuffles me into the cold storage in that intimidating way he...had." John takes her hand and bends his head to her palm, kissing it then looking up at her as if he might be cataloging her reactions. Molly ignores him, not missing a beat. "And the lights are off and he slams the door on us and pushes me up against the wall yanks my skirt up and my knickers down and takes me right there. But of course, it isn't really a fantasy, so much as a memory. Because he used to do that all of the time—"

"What? You're joking!"

"Yes. I am. Gottcha. Drink." She raises her chin, pleased with herself and hands him his glass.

John grumbles as his brain goes from pure shock to understanding. "Yes. Yes, you did. That, was bloody brilliant. Very sneaky. You were just pulling my chain?"

Molly shrugs, and plops her chin on her hand. "Doesn't have to be true. My job is to make you lose your wits with what I say."

John bursts into laughter and is still chuckling as he says, "I see I am going to have to step up my game a little here or you are going to have a very drunk man on your hands and it will not be a pretty sight, I assure you." He makes a face as he takes his shot and shivers a bit afterwards. "Now where were we? Oh, your turn."

Molly looks at the ceiling and around the room. "Who was your greatest lover of all time and why?"

John takes a deep breath and his tongue worries his lower lip for a second before he nods for her to let the timer begin. "This has to say between you and me. I can't have this getting around. But it was a man." He glances at her shyly and Shivers just a little as Molly puts her hand gently on his knee and lets her fingers twist toward his thigh. "He had an enormous cock. He was completely insane in bed, had no boundaries. He could suck like a tornado and you have met him." John looks her in the eye and whispers, "Mike Stamford."

Molly's face went from almost neutral to the tiniest display of almost hurt to pure horror as she gasp, "NO!"

John hands her the glass and shakes his head with mock pity. "No. But that is a very delicious color of pink you turned when you thought I meant Sherlock. Bottoms up."

She lets her breath out and takes her punishment. "That one should require a double. I will never get that picture out of my head. You are only the fifth person to ever make me drink." She grins at him and sets her glass down refilling it. "That was very naughty."

"Not as naughty as this." John pulls her over on top of him and nips at her neck sliding his hand along her chin. "Give me six good reasons you won't let me make love to you tonight. I know you're aroused. You want too. I want to. Six. Good. Reasons."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_"Not as naughty as this." John pulls her over on top of him and nips at her neck sliding his hand along her chin. "Give me six good reasons you won't let me make love to you tonight. I know you're aroused. You want too. I want to. Six. Good. Reasons."_

Molly's breathing lurches in and out of her lungs and she fights to say something, because the truth is, she can smell him too and he is giving off some very tempting male perfume and the way he's positioned her, it is obvious that this question is only a joke if he can't talk her into a different sort of game. "Because, we've had too much to drink." She begins holding out her thumb and trying to ignore his hands that seem to be roaming awfully close but just short of that line of molestation, which is just making matters worse in fact. "Two, because I am terrified I would wake up to you dead if I disappointed you." That was harsh enough that she hoped he would react, but he just kept looking up at her peacefully watching her come apart under his gentle gliding fingertips.

"Three, because I think you would regret it, which would make me feel horrible. Four, because I saw a side of you that isn't very nice and you hurt my feelings and five because it would feel like cheating on him….and.. Oh God John, you have to stop…"

"Drink." He whispered with an evil grin and he reached behind her and hands her the glass, but his other hand was still up under her skirt and very blatantly on her arse. She accepted it and drank, trying to move, but he stilled her. "Let me show you, why you should rethink that. One kiss, Molly. I will stop then. I swear. But, one kiss. Please," he purrs as he is already pulling her down toward his lips tossing her empty glass away somewhere on the couch without any further regard for its whereabouts.

His eyes are focused and if a robotic voice had stated 'target acquired' she couldn't have felt more helpless to the sudden guiding charm he directed at her.

As she leans forward, her crotch naturally slides against his and the state she found him in was tantalizingly firm. She has barely grasped this dizzying connection when his lips close to hers and he sucks all the breath from her lungs then breaths into her as if doing some reversed rescue breathing. She is startled to stillness at these sensations and his tongue gently darts between her lips and then he pulls her down harder pressing his promising willingness to please her eagerly against her dampening knickers and entering her mouth like no man had ever bothered to realize she could want. He demands all of her with skill and hideously aching claim.

He takes over all her objections and there is something so filled with raw power and visceral lust that her wits have completely collapsed into a mewling heap of wanton need that the sixth item on her list stops existing. A new list is forming, all leading to yes, when he flips her backwards and follows her down onto the couch, urgently begging her consent and receiving it without interference.

He finally backs away and she can see the regret on his face. She realizes that she is making a horrible mistake and startles at the thought of explaining this near life-bomb to Sherlock. "Oh god." She stands and does her best to smooth her clothing back into order. "John. That was the most. Um. I just.."

He is next to her and his hands are roaming more than freely now as he whispers softly, "That was just a kiss. Let me worship you. Come upstairs with me. Don't think. Don't make excuses to deny what you know we can have. He's not here. He didn't want us. We are left behind and we have to survive that truth. Give me one chance. I swear to you there will be no regrets. Just this night, forget with me? Let this one moment, not be about him, for us. Let this be ours. I need you."

Molly spins and meets his eyes, shaking her head trying to figure out how to make her exit, because she knows she won't be able to stop if he puts his mouth on her again. It is too much. He could sweep her away from all reason with one more kiss. "No. Please. We can't. I should go. That was unbelievable and I can't even explain how hard this is to say, but you and I don't care about each other and it …it …we would both be sorry and then say it was because we were cabbaged. Then the next thing I know you would stop speaking to me—"

"No. I wouldn't. Your right. We aren't madly in love with each other. But what we love is…dead and we both are going to die of sorrow if we don't find something, lovely and beautiful and good, to make all the shattered things we feel stop burning us up from within. Not saying it's the most brilliant plan, or without flaws. I am a little drunk and so are you, but not enough that I don't know what I'm saying. We will take it as it comes because all I can think of, just this second, is you. And it means something. Don't know what, but something. For the first time. Since." He swallows and shakes his head and his voice grows husky. She knows he's fighting tears, by how his voice hitches as he continues, "I want something. For the first time since that day. I'm not having a piss at you here. I swear it. You're the first thing I have felt in what feels like ten lifetimes. Please, god, don't say no."

"Maybe it isn't yes or no. I can't think, John. I have to think this through. I mean…I want to say yes, but I just can't. I am too drunk. I am too full of things I have no idea what…if we hurt each other, the price is too high. I need to go home and you need to take a moment and just think too. I can't trust it isn't just the booze and that would make me…I have enough trouble just—"

John steps back from her, face warping into calm. His eyes meet hers for a second then look at her chin. He inhales sharply and nods. He rubs his face, as if to wake up or be more sober. "Ok. I understand. It's fine. I can call you a cab, beings I destroyed your phone. I will buy you another. In fact, take my card and pick out whatever you want." He reaches into his pocket and moves away determinedly searching for his wallet. "Or you could stay. I would sleep on the couch or, you could have his room, I wouldn't disturb you…that would actually be fine. I'd like that. We could have breakfast…and…"He looks at her and seems to shrink a little, "or not. Wallet, wallet, oh, let me check in here."

"I have money. It's fine."

"Alright then. Call you a cab?"

"No. I'll just walk to Bart's. My neighbor works there, if I don't find one on the way. She has a car and she's working. She's a nurse. She will give me a ride when she gets off work."

"Long way. You shouldn't be out alone, without a phone. Please." His face seems like he's trying to figure out how to tell a patient bad news. "Just. Could you stay? I will worry…"

"I don't think so. John. I need the walk and some space, because I have no idea what this is and I wasn't prepared…at all…it isn't no…or even yes. I am …just…sorry. I'll come round tomorrow and we will sort it out in the daylight. I sort of care too much about you to…screw it up or expect the wrong things. That's all. That's all. You know I would like to. You said the other night it would go here. I should have listened…or maybe…I don't know."

"My fault there. My fault here too. I don't know either and I deeply apologize for my behavior. You have tried to be a friend and I keep …Jesus, I am as bad as him. Sure? About the cab I mean? I'd feel better…"

"Oh, well. Ok then."

"Good. How about a nice strong tea while you wait?" John runs his fingers through his hair and dials for the cab. Molly stands by the window, trying to make up her mind about leaving at all. John has been very closed lipped and perfunctory in his mild thoughtful actions while they waited. He picked up all the bits of her phone and put them in a little bag. He takes the glasses and the nearly empty bottle into the kitchen. He asks about her schedule. She answers but can tell he's not really paying attention. She has changed her mind several times as she sipped her tea when a high pitched squeal of breaks followed by a tooting horn, gives her the strength to make her exit.

As she pulled away, she glances up to the window and sees his face. He smiles and waves at her and she grins and returns it. She takes a deep breath and scoots down in the seat to nap a bit for the trip home. Her head is spinning and her mind is dancing on the edge of dosing as she thinks of where she wishes she were right this minute. She sighs, not wanting to think about what she just turned down. She aches with desire as she thinks of him. How did Sherlock stand to be near him all that time? She had always thought him to be like her, a little boring and too eager to please. That impression is changing rapidly. John is a lot more than she expected. Oh, yes, leaving was very hard.

She smiled as she thought about tomorrow. Maybe he was right? Maybe they could somehow heal each other a bit. Of course the big issue that she didn't want to think about would come round and spoil it all. When he found out that she knew Sherlock wasn't dead, he would have every right to hate her. And God, it really would be like cheating on him, somehow, beings he is alive. He said he cared for her almost as much as John and he was in love with him. In the end she would lose, one way or another. She would lose John. She would even lose Sherlock because he would blame her for not being selfless, faithful little doormat-Molly. Still, it could be worth the pain to for once have a lover who really wanted to please her as much as they wanted to please themselves. That kiss had been volumes of promised pleasures.

Tomorrow she would say yes. Damned the torpedoes and the inevitable storms, she was going to take something just for her. This wasn't about Sherlock. He pushed her, yes, but she didn't want John because of Sherlock telling her she should shag his depressed flat-mate.

She honestly wanted John because he was about as plain as a stick of dynamite. He might not seem very dazzling hiding in the shadow of Sherlock's spectacular display, but that didn't mean that the package gave away the inside. Inside, John Watson, was pure power and strength. He would destroy himself for someone he loved and that made him too good to be forced to suffer Sherlock's pretend death alone. Maybe, once Sherlock was back, he would think about her sometimes. That would be enough, really. Just to be with someone like him and have that memory, and even when he moved on, to see that little recognition in his eyes once in a while. That would be something.

She smiled, thinking of him looking down at her from the window. She wondered what he was doing right this minute. A trickle of dread fired a horrible thought that made her breath catch. What if he wasn't there tomorrow? What if she went there tomorrow and discovered that he had returned to the activity she had interrupted? She hadn't said no, but she had rejected him. He was pretty drunk, even though he handled it well. A depressed person, full of a substance that acted as a depressant who she just rejected. She pictured him at the window. His smile had not reached all the way to his eyes. The little wave, just an innocent gesture, unless it was the last glimpse she would have of him in life.

She sat up and her mind could picture his slumped posture, a small tremor before the deep breath of resolve. The sound of gunfire not aimed at her phone this time. There would be that crack as a projectile broke the sound barrier for the second time tonight in 221b Baker Street. Then a few thumps and muffled knock sounds as his agonal respirations cease then silence as the smoke from the discharged gunpowder wafts along unseen air currents now perfumed with blood.

If she waits until tomorrow and sentences herself to his post mortem, and because she cares she will, she would suck her feelings deep inside and be so gentle and respectful with him. It won't matter and he would probably think it funny that she would place his heart gently on the scale to weigh it. But she would always know that she could have done another thing and it might have mattered.

What would it do to her mind knowing that if she hadn't let fear put her in flight mode, that she would have known his warm living body as a source of pleasure rather than bits to be catalogued. Would she memorize the measurements as she would have memorized his first genuine post-coital smile? Of course, and then one day there would be no text from Sherlock and something cold in her would just know. He would be gone too. Her fear would end them both. Poor little Molly, so afraid of a moment of joy that she would walk away from bliss, rather than stand up and take something she needs as badly as he does.

It isn't even exclusively sex that she needs. She needs someone who needs her. Who could possibly need her more? Molly scoots forward and knocks on the little window as she says sweetly, "Excuse me, I have changed my mind. I think I forgot something and it really can't wait until tomorrow. If you could be so kind as to turn us around and drop me off exactly where you picked me up, I would appreciate it very much."

* * *

**A.N. Yes I have yet to post a chapter that I didn't catch a spelling error - My upload document does not work so I have to erase the chapter and paste the new one in that slot - Sorry, try to deal with them for now and I will go back once it is finished. Thank you for the reviews and follows. The next chapter may seem a bit dark, but I mean for this to be putting Molly in as much stress as possible. That's rather the point...evil grin.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The driver smirked and nodded. It was nearly one am by the time she tentatively tried the door to 221 and was surprised to find it unlocked. She closed it softly, locked it and sniffed the air. She tiptoed up the stairs and turned the handle quietly, letting herself in. If he was asleep, she would just tuck in on the couch. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light.

He is sitting there, in his chair, with his back to her. "Sneaking into an armed man's flat is a very good away to get shot, dear Molly Hooper."

"You weren't going to shoot me," she says softly taking a single step in toward him.

"True. Why did you come back?"

"Because. In the cab, I just couldn't wait to come back tomorrow. I realized you were right and I don't want you because of him. I wasn't even thinking about him. I mean obviously, we wouldn't know each other if not for Sherlock, but that kiss. Right now my mind and a lot more of me is all filled up with John Watson. I was afraid, that's all. I'm not afraid. Well that isn't…true. But, what I mean is, whatever that was, or wasn't… or might be, I want to find out, even if it isn't anything…I just want to find out, if there is something, and if I came back tomorrow, and you weren't here, I would hate…myself. I'm rambling, please say something."

"How did you know? That I wouldn't be here?" he asks, voice hollow and distant. He raises his hand and in it is his Browning.

"Oh, God." She swallows and she feels a little dizzy, like she's going to be sick. "Does this mean I'm too late?" She has a thousand things she wants to say, but all she can think is he's going to be cruel to her like Sherlock was to him and she deserves it for letting him be in so much pain and everything good she tries to do just ends up as useless as a chocolate teapot.

"Not if you don't want it to be. Nick of time, I'd say. But you aren't doing me much good clear over there."

Taking a deep breath, she slips off her shoes and quietly walks around to face him. He still has the gun in his hand and it makes her nervous. He looks up at her and smiles a little, his finger is on his lips again and the gun is held loosely like part of his hand.

Her eyes dart to it and she asks, "Are you going to put that down?"

"Take off your clothes for me." He says looking at her steady as his finger and the gun slide back and forth on his lip.

"What?" she says, giggling nervously?

"You heard me. I want to see you. Don't take your eyes off me and take off your clothes." It sounds gentle but it is also every bit a command.

"John, I am not … I don't think…"Her head shakes and she sighs, frustrated.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"A bit, I think, yes. Could you put that down? We could undress each other?" she suggests hopefully eyes locked on the gun and how his lips touch it like it is part of him.

"Sorry. New game. Not the way it's going to work. You're afraid of me and that's ok. For now. Your heart's racing. See, there might be one of us in the room who is bluffing right now. It isn't me. I want to know why you're here. You said no. But here you are. You may be here because you do want to be. I happen to think that isn't the case. I think you have been put up to this in some way. I think someone told you, to come back here. I don't think you want to be here at all."

Molly shakes her head and whispers, "I don't know…what you mean."

He smiles patiently, and his voice is clear but gentle still. "I hope that I am wrong. If so, you will overcome your modest giggles and you will look me in the eye and you will take off your clothes to prove you actually want to seduce me. You will probably find my attention and the little bit of danger very arousing. I do. So let me watch, or I will let you watch. You don't have to stay. It's up to you. Forensic Pathologist. So used to the after effects, want to see the process? You can report it to whoever made you come back."

Molly can't stop trembling, he is as calm and sure of his misimpression as if he were noting he'd put too much salt on his dinner. "I know the process. Please…please. Nobody made me and God…how can you say something, so damned evil to me? You're like Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." Molly regrets coming back. This isn't stoking her engines. She is feeling like she may faint or vomit at the very least.

"Noted and no argument in your analogy. You have four choices. You can try to overpower me. Not recommended. You can march out the door, probably the smartest choice. You can take off your clothes. In which case I will immediately put the gun down and we won't give it another thought, probably for hours. That is my favorite, by the way. Or, you can stand there and call my bluff if you want to. This is a limited time offer and the clock is ticking down, only to be stopped if garments hit the floor. You personally, are in no danger, by the way."

"Fine. You are not a nice man and this is not…remotely what I came back for. I thought you might be…"She unzips her dress and with a deep breath she squirms out of it and throws it to the floor.

John smiles and his breath seems to catch. She glares at him and unhooks her brassiere. She puts on her hurt broken kitty face, trying to make him feel guilty. It sort of works as she slides her last semblance of modesty off her arms and holds it against herself for a second before letting it fall. She is sliding her knickers down as quickly as possible and finally she stands before him, mortified, until three little words transform this from embarrassment to something she is sure she will burn in hell for.

"God. You're. Beautiful." John stands and he looks down at the gun for a second before clicking something and dropping it in the seat behind him. He takes a step toward her and his head tilts in appreciation as his finger worries his lip again. "I am serious, Miss Hooper, You are absolutely breathtaking. Why have you been hiding this under such bulky nightmares. Jesus. Jesus, you are so far out of my league."

He steps closer to her and shakes his head in wonder. "I'm sorry. I am an idiot. Dr. Henry Jekyll, reporting for duty. He was the nice one by the way."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly giggles a little in relief. Her eyes flash down at herself, she's so uncomfortable. Tears march down her cheeks in pure liberation. She wipes them away quickly and after several deep breaths, "I would feel better if you were in a similar state, you know."

"I warn you, not much to see, in comparison. Unless you like scars and impeccable hygiene, there isn't much to go on about." He pulls his jumper over his head and removes his checked shirt and vest. He watches her carefully as he unbuckles his trousers and slides his plain pants off in one swoop. He stands up and holds his arms out doing a little turn.

"Liar. You look…well very nice. You don't do much for showing off in your bulky jumpers either, but I like them anyway. You do have a lot of scars. I knew about your shoulder, but…where did you get all those."

He tilts his head back and laughs. He begins pointing to various puckered areas large and small. "Let's see, Kabul, Herat, Mazari Sharif, Shahi-Kot, Operation Medusa and that one hurt, let me tell you. Christ, I honestly don't remember this one or this one, the leg was in Operation Panther's Claw and the final trip to fun city happened during Operation Moshtarak, thus ending my very promising career as a surgeon, until Sherlock spent an hour proving it was all in my head. Oh and these, Sherlock, Sherlock and Sherlock. And that is the full inventory of Three-continents Watson."

"Why are you called that? I have heard it before and was too shy to ask."

He smirked and it was absolutely adorable. "I…it isn't a very nice story. Let's just say, I have a problem keeping my trousers zipped and have had some rather ruthlessly nosy friends."

"You have been caught shagging on three continents?"

"In public. What can I say? My looks don't pull much action, so I developed my…er charm. Word got around. I prefer to say I have bled and wept on three continents. It is equally as accurate, just not the truthful reason behind my name. So, want to keep trading exploits? I am very interested in yours by the way, or should I… "He pulled her forward and pressed her body to his, "take you upstairs and taste every square inch of you until you beg me to stop."

"Oh. Well, the last one sounds like the best option." She buried her face in his neck and inhaled.

John bent slightly and scooped her up bridal style. She giggled. He grinned mischievously and tossed her over his shoulder before slapping her behind. She squealed and declared he had just pitched her romantic visions out the window. He slapped her fanny again and chuckled as he carried her up stairs like a sack of potatoes.

He dumped her on the bed and spread her legs and without any preamble he entered her. She uncertainly allowed him, but after barely four thrusts he stopped and grinned. "Just sampling. Yes, that was delicious. I do think that this model will suite me quite well. Now, let's check under the hood."

Molly didn't make many coherent sounds for approximately three hours. By the time John could wait no longer for his own pleasure, she had been bent, nibbled and invaded in every orifice, some more than once and she was a new practitioner of the twenty-three minute orgasm. She was not even reasonably interested in right or wrong. She had long passed the point of caring if this was the stupidest thing she'd ever done.

Molly watched John shudder and let out an explosive string of nonsense in an estimated three languages. He turned beet red as his long postponed pleasure seemed nearly as painful as any of the wounds his scars might have offered and then he collapsed and offered her a cursory clumsy snog as he chanted her name and thank you in mumbling breathless bliss. They both were asleep before any more could be said.

His snoring awoke her and she needed the lav desperately. She fumbled and wiggled out from under him and snuck down the stairs naked. She made two quick mugs of tea and returned upstairs to find him sitting in the bed, holding his head like it would explode. He seemed almost surprised to find her handing him a cuppa and grinned sheepishly. He reached in the bedside table and offered her two pills.

"That's a bit much for a hangover, don't you think?" she stared at the pills dubiously.

"Trust me. I'm a doctor and this is alcohol induced concussion, I'm just not sure which one of my frontal lobes is going to finally swell enough to actually crack my skull. Jesus, I think my eyes are packed in glass. The only thing that could possibly make them worth opening is you naked in my bed. Do you know you are a vision in debauchery?"

Molly laughed and swallowed the pills. They lay peacefully for thirty minute then he rolled over and smiled. "Come on. I am having sex with or without you, in the shower in two minutes. I prefer the 'with you' option."

Molly grinned and followed the mad man down the stairs. The sounds they made echoed. He washed her hair and scrubbed her back in a delicious seductive way. He was all smiles and jokes and then suddenly his face grew serious. His hand slid upon her throat and he cupped her head and looked directly in her eyes, "I am so sorry about last night. There was no excuse for me to question your motives like that and I am profoundly ashamed to have frightened you in any way. I must not drink like that again, not around you. I hope you know that all of that, the stupidity bits, had nothing to do with you? I have been pretty useless for a while now. I don't regret this at all. Not for a second. I just hope you don't either."

Molly searched his face and chewed her lip for a second. "Lots of people did tell me to call you and check on you. But I would never do this…unless it was what I wanted. I knew what I was getting into. I do know how bloody horrible it's been. I was scared for you. I won't lie. But, I really wasn't scared of you."

"Good. That's good. I just have to say, you have no idea what…this. I mean. I don't want this to be a one off, if there is any hope that, we could. No. I'm not doing that. Not putting you on the spot like that. Just know, right now, I feel almost, almost, like this could be a pretty wonderful day. I'm looking forward to it. Honestly. So thank you, for that." He reaches around her and turns off the taps and hands her a towel.

"I feel like that too," she feels shy saying it, but the truth is, she hasn't had much fun in a long time. She was afraid to go anywhere these days because she had been cautioned about keeping her guard up. She wasn't recognized or hounded like John had been right after, but she could hardly go to the store for weeks that she hadn't heard something or seen another headline that either broke her heart or made her heart throb in anger.

She had slipped into defense mode at all the 'poor little Molly' whispers she pretended not to hear. She had survived it, but she had become less interested in the many people who smiled to her face and rolled their eyes behind her back. Most of them at work had seen her with the man who stole the crown jewels and they all knew she had fancied Sherlock. She had become a little stand offish about invitations. She did understand what John meant, because she was looking forward to a lovely day and just having someone near who didn't hold onto the false things that they had said in the papers.

They dressed and headed out into the city for phone shopping and lunch. Molly had several texts waiting and snuck into the loo to answer them.

They were all from Sherlock and she read them and carefully answered them with one text.

[All is fine, but it was a danger night and he broke my phone, shot it actually. He's fine. I'm fine. But he's right here so please lay low. Will explain later. He's having fun, so don't worry. We both love you very much.]

[Molly. I am so sorry. You didn't have to put yourself in danger. That is such a rare part of him, I never imagined he would threaten you harm. God you must hate me. Are you sure you are ok?]

[I told you anything and I guess I meant it. I'll keep him safe. You keep you safe.]


	10. Chapter 10

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

She deleted the texts and smiled as she sees John, standing unobtrusively by the door, hardly noticeable to the people who walked by him. But when he spots her, his face lights up and she sighs in pleasure, confident that this compact, scarcely conspicuous man had just made her world a lot more exciting. She pauses, memorizing that smile, delighted that she has put it there.

"You're going to think I'm horrible, but is there any chance that you might fancy a trip back to my flat for a bit of shagging?" he whispered low and sounding as if he thought she would probably turn him down.

"That sounds almost too good to be true. But if we are going to do this…well more. I mean I am not saying I expect that. But if we are… if you aren't bored or tired of me or anything. I need to make a rule. Well, two actually."

He snickered his eyes flash to her as he speaks, "No shooting your phone?"

"That is the second one. Actually. But if you take up, what you thought about last night, you have to give me thirty days. You have to stop shagging me for thirty days so I have time to know it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. If I have a lovely shag with you and then…that. It would destroy me. I want this with you, and I know that I can't make it… fix that…I'm just asking you to not take me with you? Sort of?"

John's face darkened for a moment and she was sure he was going to turn into the Hyde version. His voice was low but not unkind, "Ok. I can see that. I would hate to hurt you and of course you know I would understand, far too well, in fact. In return, we have honesty. Both ways. So if you get to the point, you can't stand the sight of me. You tell me, this is the last time. Because, I want the last memory to be…well…not average. Has to be extraordinary. Deal?"

Molly returned to her own flat that night wondering what that crazy man could possibly hope to call extraordinary. Twenty-six minutes was already in the realm of spectacular.

Her phone rang exactly ten minutes after she arrived home. She was in the lavatory, of course.

Molly gave Sherlock the basics of what had occurred, leaving out one detail that she just couldn't bring herself to say.

"So, you are play-acting dating him? You don't have to do that. Introduce him to one of those little snippy nurses you try to pretend are your friends ," Sherlock suggests.

"No. I can't. Yet. I mean, if you think about it, that wouldn't be very nice. I think it is better to keep it simple. I mean if they really liked him and he got in one of those…moods again. He might hurt someone."

"True. But he could just as easily hurt you and I can't let that occur."

"I have to assume, that that was the worst. I mean, he was horribly drunk. I managed. If it's me, then I can control the argument a bit too. I mean, if he just dates some nobody and she were to throw him over. At the wrong time? He would just be gone, we would never have a clue why."

"Oh for God sakes, I can't stand this."

"Then you have to let me tell him."

"Impossible. He would find me. Or try something equally stupid. I know him. It would hurt him more to know I left him behind. I'm not strong enough to say no to him if he offers to come."

"There is only one person who can fix him. It's not me. Are you sure that you are strong enough to face …what today almost was?"

There is a pause there. Sherlock sounds unsure as he asks, "Almost? I don't understand. This day has no sentimental mark on the calender that I am aware of. What could a day almost be that your advice could affect?"

"The day of his post-mortem?"

The phone is dead silent. Molly refuses to break it.

"I see what you mean. You do realize there could be…unexpected complications, if you propose to actually date him."

"Besides the gun and the personality shifts and the bag of treasures he's amassed you mean?"

Sherlock lets out a frustrated growl. "Sex. If you are dating him, he will expect sex. Are you saying that something has changed since our first conversation? Because I can speak with surety here, the man may seem like mild little sweet John, but he does something to women and he doesn't give up once he's on the scent. It is like a disease with him. I am sure that half of the women he brought home could not deal with his insatiable appetite. I am not joking here. It has been seven months and his libido will most likely rebound in a way that may boarder on insanity. If that desire is focused on you…I shudder to think how it would end."

"I am not some innocent little lost lass here. He isn't going to corrupt me."

Sherlock sighs, "Dammit you are so sweet and naive. Look at this logically. He has already shown you a propensity to belittle you. He has superior physical strength. He was never completely rational when he had not found frequent outlet for his base needs. He shot your phone last night. He's suicidal. He has nothing to lose. I don't dare attempt to put this delicately because you will find some way of sticking flowers in it and pretending not to understand. You are setting yourself up to be raped. I mean it, if he were to break, it wouldn't be a matter of dubious consent because he was pushy and you were too polite to say no. That kit you described, doesn't just frighten me for him."

"What are you saying? You want me to forget it?"

"No…I don't know. If you date him, stay with him on his bad nights. Are you prepared to have consensual sex with John? Because I am not asking that of you. And if you choose to play coy then prepare to have that choice removed from you. He could keep you in a state of near coma indefinitely."

"And then you would hate me for it," she whispers.

"No, I wouldn't, but I would blame myself for putting you in the position in the first place."

"You wouldn't be my friend anymore. You will abandon me."

"Not the way you think."

"Tell me. I deserve to know. So I can think ahead. I know you, maybe better than anyone. I know what you can be like when you get...hurt. You wouldn't stand by me? You'd never look at me again, not even as your friend. I'm not a fool Sh…" She remembers she's not supposed to use his name. "Sorry. But you always act like I am stupid. I keep hoping someday you will… but you won't. Just poor little stupid, Molly. Wonder what I can't talk her into risking today."

"Don't think you can predict me. I trust you and I care about you, but don't think you can use this against me. Don't you dare play with me. I know what I owe you. I owe you my life."

"Piss off, Sherlock. I don't want your IOU. I care about you. I have all along. There is no account balance to be paid off with pity kisses and pretending you...I just wanted you to respect me. That's all. If you can't ever figure that out...never mind. I'll do whatever I have to to keep him alive. Maybe someday...you'll figure out this boring friendship stuff,"Molly snaps then sighs deeply. They both hold on the line not speaking.

Sherlock for once, gives in and breaks the silence first. "I don't mean to be so hard. So cruel. Not to you. You already have my respect. If it were otherwise, I wouldn't have so much trouble telling you what I want. Which is why I can't ask you to take such a risk. It's like flipping a coin on your lives. I'm calling this plan off. I will figure something else out. I know he's unstable and unpredictable. He always has been. He's much more damaged than he pretends. I know him. I didn't know he would be so long in his grief for one friend when he has had so much practice at dealing with death."

Molly is just as unhappy with the idea of failing as she is with the idea of Sherlock figuring out that the ship has already been sprinkled with pixie dust and she's just counting stars for her heading. "So now you want to give up? I'll give him a ring and tell him he's a really great guy but... I've decided to date girls now? Or I just want to be friends? Oh, how about I'm married to my work?"

"The free _witch_ lessons seem to be working for you, Molly. Bravo."

"The teacher notices? All my hard work is paying off, after all," she replies bitterly.

"High marks to be expected...wait, this is getting us no closer to solving our problem. Moving on, shall we? Here is why you must not continue, just hear me out. John is used to getting his way. He can be very subtle, but he sucks people in and before you know it, you discover a need to...it's difficult to explain. John is more clever than I when he wishes to manipulate people. He doesn't even realise it, but if one method fails, he doesn't stop, he just changes tactics. He can be so patient, but once he sees it is not working, he can be much more agressive. In his current state of self-destructive grief he could be volitile. It could easily take an ugly turn, Molly. I fear there are some dark sides to my John. If you came to such harm, by anyone's hand I would kill them slowly and they would scream until every vision of them harming you was wiped away. If you came to such harm by his hand, I would have to end him. I would make it quick for him. Then I would abandon you. Because, I would have to follow him."

Molly sniffs and her voice shakes, "And if it's consensual? If I were to keep him alive and that was my last resort, if I choose it. What then?"

"I would never ask that of you. Never."

"I know, but..." Molly says but can't seem to find the words to explain that it's to late to worry about that now.

"I don't want you to take the chance. It is to much to ask."

"If you do respect me, you will let me decide. I'm not giving up. No matter what you say. Figure something out or just tell him the truth, but I can't tell him to push off and hope he takes it well."

"I don't know what to say...my gratitude ... I. Molly, I'm so...I didn't dare..."he stumbles for words, relief and fear clearly not something he is used to dealing with often.

Molly for once is relieved to hear a knock on the door. It is probably her landlady. "Ok. I have to go. There is someone at the door."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly opened the door and John grinned from behind a huge bouquet of flowers. "Oh God, what did I do? Already? I brought flowers if they will in anyway be useful in my deep sincere apology?" He looked at her chin, face calm.

Molly laughed. "Get in here, you bloody git. I was watching a sad movie and it made me think about my Dad and you must have an ego the size of Canada to think it is always about you. But thank you for assuming you were automatically in the wrong. That will cut down on the bickering and save time for shagging," she says boldly.

"Oh. Now I see the creepy part you warned me about. You are a true to life mind reader? Yes, it is a bit creepy. But God it will save time for shagging too. I mean I thought last night was some sort of miracle one shot thing, but if we are going to make a habit of it. Mind if I have a go?"

Molly wiped her tears and took the flowers as he followed her into the flat talking and cracking jokes about their delicious disaster of a first date. "By all means."

John hams it up, squinting his eyes and fondling her breasts as if he were tuning her in. "I see…I see that you want to rip my clothes off and have me on your carpet, then you will be hungry so we will go to dinner, to absorb enough calories for another fantastic marathon shag?"

Molly rolled her eyes, "Better make dinner on the quick side though, I have to work tomorrow. We have to set our priorities."

John takes a deep breath and sighs in wonder. "God I love the way you think. You are brilliant. You know that, right?"

"Finally noticed that, did you?"

He chuckled and lifted her blouse, one of her old ones that involved a lot of sassy but ridiculously garish cats. "You camouflage it under all this crap. God that is horrible? Where did you buy that? The ugly store of never getting laid?"

"It was a gift." She said lifting his jumper and examining it with a critical eye. "What color is this exactly? Vomit or Baby poop?"

"I believe it was called sunflower. But, now that you mention it, it might give your cats with the plastic bobble eyes a fair chase to the rubbish heap."

"I don't care. They both performed their ultimate function." Her eyes twinkle and her head cocks to one side a little.

"Warmth?" he purrs, enjoying wrapping his arms around her and feeling hers.

"Quick exit." She teases.

"Ok, my turn to make a rule. No matter how much you like them, I won't be wearing tear away stripper trousers." Her eyebrows shoot up into an 'oh really' look. John clears his throat and raises his finger to her nose. "Not in public ,anyway."

Three weeks pass and every day, John fills up her world. Then before she blinks, they have celebrated the three month point. She and Sherlock have only been able to have rapid clipped conversations. She hasn't had time to send him extensive updates and he has been very quiet, which was honestly his normal volume of communication. She worries when her phone is silent for days, because it could mean anything. She never has any idea where he is. He was satisfied that she was handling the John situation in some capacity and evidently Mycroft had also confirmed that John seemed to be a bit better.

Sherlock was absolutely right about John's appetite. The strange thing is, that in those first three weeks, Molly had had more intimate encounters than she had had in her whole life combined and she didn't mind. The more she had of him, the more she wanted. She was not put off by his near constant desire. She was blossoming on it. The way he looked at her, every time, made her feel beautiful. He said it at least thirty times a day.

For her birthday, John took her to Angelo's and Molly was surprised when he seemed to know who she was. "Oh, so bitter sweet. So romantic, his two lover's in love." He said and neither John nor Molly had the heart to correct him. It made both of them feel terrible because every time the poor man came to the table he got all teary.

The one year anniversary of Sherlock's suicide was a hard day. Reporters had done stories and somehow gotten a picture of John and Molly kissing at Regent's Park. Molly didn't want Sherlock to see it but there was nothing she could do. She tried to prepare him.

John and Molly and Mrs. Hudson had a picnic at the graveyard and Mrs. Hudson brought a candle in a tall glass container. John brought little toy bees on wire and stuck them in the ground and smiled when a breeze made them appear to be fluttering around his grave.

Molly brought Daffodils. They looked pretty with the bees. She looked at the real flowers and the fake bees, and cried a little for the man buried here, and the shadow of one who wasn't.

Lestrade showed up and seemed really embarrassed that he was caught coming with a little flower arrangement and a hand full of newspaper clippings of the most recent crimes he'd been working on.

He joined them for the picnic and before long he was making them all giggle at some of Sherlock's antics from the first days he'd met him. He had heard John and Molly were together soon after they had taken up with each other. His divorce was final now. Molly was sorry for him, but she and Sherlock had spoken many times about Greg. After that he was always invited to dinner at Mrs. Hudson's.

She had never met someone like John and the more she discovered about him, the harder it got to lie to him. There had been no more relapses into his cruel side. Four times a day was average for a workday and on her days off, they barely left whichever flat had been closest. They didn't spend every minute repeatedly working toward the goal of her reaching her full thirty minute promised orgasm. But they spent it literally in worship of the other. There was touching and cuddles and kindnesses that all amounted to a languid ever-building foreplay.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson teased them about being the love birds. They both found it uncomfortable. It was hard to say what they were exactly.

The opera finally rolled around. He'd purchased the tickets so early he'd gotten remarkable seats and it had been lovely. It was Molly's first absolutely exquisite romantic date in her life. Mrs. Hudson had taken Molly off one day to help her select a gown. It was a gown. It wasn't a dress. It cost more than her whole wardrobe before Sherlock sent her shopping. John went to a tailor in Soho and ordered his first bespoke suit for the occasion. She and John and Mrs. Hudson had made a day of it when the garments were ready for the final fittings.

John paid for her gown, though Molly had insisted she had every intention of paying for it. She finally relented; there wasn't much reason to bicker over which of them spent Sherlock's money. Molly had the emergency fund and beings it had been noted that keeping John happy was its purpose in general, she hadn't felt guilty. John quietly admitted with tears in his eyes, that Sherlock had left him very well to do, though he wouldn't go into detail.

He had looked up at her so sweetly and then broke her heart. "He left me his estate. I haven't touched a fucking quid of it all this time. Let me do this. Let me take just the smallest pleasure in doing this. He would have loved to see you in this. Purple was his favorite color and I know he would have loved this on you. So you have to let me do this one thing. For him? For me? I want to think that he would be happy for us and maybe this is my first step to making peace. I don't know. I have so damned far to go. But this is right and I won't let you say no to me. I didn't expect to be here to use these tickets. I wouldn't have been, if not for you. I'd like to think he sent you to me. We never paid any attention to each other. Then all of a sudden, when I had no more left, there you were." He pauses and twists his neck and clears his throat. His head drops into his hand and he shudders, chin trembling. Then he sucks in a deep breath and is again almost in control.

"I know it's stupid. I know it is so bloody stupid, but just let me believe it for now and let me have my little sentimental idiocy that maybe, wherever the glorious bastard is, that maybe he cares enough to watch over me a little and send me you. Just let me have that. I am buying you the sodding dress and that is the end of it." John had broken down three times during this speech and Mrs. Hudson had snuffled into a tissue for almost two hours. Molly was absolutely gutted.

Molly was shocked when Mycroft stepped out of the tailor's shop, a garment bag thrown casually over his shoulder. He greeted them cordially and delayed them with pleasantries for almost ten minutes. It was very strange and Molly should have known better than to shake his hand. There was a card with a date and time only.

She is summoned.

She debates about telling John. But when he asked her what Mycroft had passed her, she just hands it to him without a word.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

John has at least one bloodhound in his ancestry because he is on the trail instantly. Molly convinced him that it probably had to do with the post-mortem examination or it had to do with the small investment Sherlock had kindly left her. John insists on going. Molly deferred him, saying she didn't want Mycroft nosing around about them as a couple. He'd been the same way about Sherlock and at least he gave her the courtesy of setting an appointment a week in advance. He had allowed her to reschedule when one of his kidnappings were inconvenient and that was how they did it now.

"He just bloody kidnaps me." John grumbles.

"Well, I set my foot down with him and we have been fine ever since. I have been at this for nearly five years now. Mycroft is fine to me. He always has been. Sometimes he was nicer to me than Sherlock ever was. He even offered to let me stay in a safer flat, when Jim kept calling. I didn't, but he offered. I am a big girl, John. It's fine."

The encounter was not fine. The encounter is horrible, in fact.

"Molly Hooper," he stated as his only greeting.

She took her seat and tucked her hair behind her ears, declining his offered refreshments. "Hi. Well, here I am. You called? What did you need, Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiles and she wonders if he is a cat person, beings he seems to have all the features of Toby about to consume a still twitching mouse, head first. He sighs and his lips press into a thin line. His chin rests on his fingers with a casual posture, but his other hand taps on the arm of the leather chair and his eyes seem to find several places in the room to look other than her face. "Sentiment is a complex kettle of soup. Murky, boiling, alluring. How was the opera?"

Molly sits ramrod straight, hands carefully folded in her lap. She is well aware he is not asking about the opera alone and she doesn't wish to talk about John."It was lovely. There was no soup involved."

"Ah? Indeed? I would be much more convinced of that had I not happened to catch the late feature in which I was, how shall I say this, most intrigued by certain declarations made by Dr. Watson of a romantic nature toward your person. Your very naked and rapturous person I might add."

Molly swallows and her heart sinks. She was so tired of having to lie to Sherlock about what was taking place between she and John, but now Mycroft would use this against her. How dare he sit there and act like her privacy had no restrictions to his invasions. "You watched us have sex, in other words."

His faced pushed down in a mock frown that made her skin crawl. "I also watched a broken man force you to disrobe at gunpoint, my dear. I was most concerned. Of course we have been closely monitoring the situation. As of last week Baker Street is now on full audio as well. I thought it would be an act of consideration to make you aware of this fact."

Molly's heart drops again and she can't stop her fingers from reaching up to fiddle with her hair. "Oh God. You didn't tell Sherlock that, did you? Not about all of that, did you?"

"Good God, of course not. My brother would kill him. Did you not realize there would be a loyalty conflict if John harmed you? "

"But, that was your interpretation and yet that didn't bother you. You knew what he was seconds away from doing. Don't say you didn't see what I walked in on. You didn't care until he said he loved me?" Molly looked down at her hands. "So if he kills me or himself, it's fine, but if he cares for me, that is a problem?"

"Both are a problem, or at least have the potential? I was confused about why you went back. We were in fact on high alert for intervention. This was a nightly occurrence, by the way, and he had yet to complete the act. We were about to take control of John. It seemed warranted at that time. Then you returned. If he forced himself on you, why would you return? Obviously you find some measure of enjoyment in your activities with Dr. Watson, yet you are quite aware of my brother's feelings for him. I am not beyond bounds to suggest the doctor deeply returns those feelings. How do you imagine that will turn out for you, once he returns?"

"I imagine they will both forget I exist for the most part. It was just said in the moment, you know, things like that are said, sometimes. It isn't the end of the world if he happens to care a little for me. It's helping him. He is eating again and he's even talking about going back to work."

"Very true. I am delighted that you are such a practical woman, Molly. Sherlock is very fond of you. I know he put you up to this. The fact that you would do such a thing for my brother, knowing that at some point you would be required to step aside, has earned you a place of innumerable accolade within my own heart."

"I am sure it is a very…" She searched modifiers, discarding; shriveled, minute, withered, desiccated, cold, stony and empty, "…exclusive space."

Mycroft chuckles and rolls his eyes upward as he leans back in his chair to contemplate something above her head. Molly's eyes follow his, searching for what he could be looking at, but she realizes he's just being dramatic and he startles her when he speaks again. "With diplomacy skills like that, I can assure you that should the dead body business ever lose its mystical draw, that you need look no further than my office for meaningful employment. We have a rather remarkable benefits package, in fact, should the need for a change of scenery arise for any reason."

"Well, that is very kind, but I can't imagine that my skills would be of much use. According to Sherlock, your department rarely needs to search for a cause of death."

Mycroft looks at her, dropping his chin and wrinkling his forehead, but his eyes are truly amused with her. "Careful, Miss Hooper."

"Sorry," she says and shrugs a little looking at her shoes.

Order restored, he acts as if something has just occurred to him, but the piece of paper he examines then slides across his desk to her, says he is deliberately trying to bring the subject up, and only pretending it is chance. " I have also arranged for a token compensation package for your efforts in this matter, though I do not wish you to misconstrue my appreciation to be taken as payment for services. However, something must be recompensed for the quantity of Dr. Watson's…uhem… attentions you have been borne to seemingly endure."

Molly is furious, because what he said and what he seemed to mean were in exact opposition of each other. "I don't want that. Don't do that. This isn't some dirty little order. Not for me. Sherlock never asked me to do that." She slides the paper firmly back across his desk without looking at it.

He looks a little offended but at once recovers into a mocking sneer that is hard to misinterpret. "Didn't he?"

She glares at him across the desk and he blinks and folds his hands on the desk like a headmaster about to address a pupil whose behavior has disappointed him.

"Molly, please let me be explicitly clear here. Protect your heart from John Watson. You can't control how he feels and I do understand that. But you must not forget the ultimate goal of your endeavor and set yourself up for a crushing heartbreak. I do understand, my dear, more than you probably want me to. If things were what they seemed, this would be the romance of fairytales and little girl's dreams. But things are not what they seem, are they?"

"No." she agreed calmly. Her life is nothing but lies. She is trapped in mendacity and there is no escape. She lies to Sherlock. She lies to John. Now, she is hedging Mycroft's questions. Worst of all, she has begun to lie to herself. She is turning to stone and promising things she can't hope to see through to keep two people she loves alive. She is praying for this whole situation to end and begging that it doesn't end too soon while fearing each day it will conclude in some tragic slip that will burn them all .

"So, I do know you care, very much, for them both and there may come a time for you, in which you would like some distance. The money will be set aside whether you want it or not. I do see your distress and it isn't my intent. I honestly am simply planning for an inevitable moment. Dream things that are possible, my dear, and forsake the things that will kill you in the end. Perhaps you will treasure a new dream, at some point in your life, and my token may give you the means and freedom to find it."

"I still don't think it will be necessary, but thank you for, trying to… put it…a little nicer. I haven't told Sherlock. I haven't told him that John and I, have grown closer than I expected. Closer than he asked me to be." She can't meet his eyes, but it is left in such a way that the unspoken question of whether or not Mycroft has been sharing an X-rated video stream with his brother hangs loudly in the air.

Mycroft lets the question go unanswered as he studies her. Whatever he wanted seemed to be satisfied finally and he drops his eyes and addresses her in a more gentle tone than he had been using. "He has asked. He does know. He has known for some time. I did not go into vulgar detail, but I did mention that you were seeing to John in a way that proved a loyalty far beyond measure."

Her breath escapes noisily and she leans into her hand in humiliation. "Oh God. How did he take it? What did he say?"

"He asks that I put myself at your disposal and protect you as best I can." Mycroft says with a sympathetic tilt to his head and an almost chastised look of vulnerability.

"Thank you. Very nice. But I am not with John as some job or order. It started that way. But it isn't that now." Molly stands and paces a little, her hands hold the back of her arms protectively. "I do want what is best for them both. I want them to have a happy ending. They have both been through so much. You don't have to pay me to get me to go away, Mycroft. I thought you would know me a little by now. All this time. Everything I risk, my job, my life maybe, was for them. I don't have to be the one who wins at all cost. I know that I will have to lose. But that doesn't mean that none of this matters. It matters. John can take Sherlock and Sherlock can take John, from me. But you can't take this. It's mine. Just like helping Sherlock is mine."

"I don't understand what you mean." He says frowning but not in an angry way.

"It means nothing. But it's everything to me. It means that for a little while, I mattered. I belong to them both now. They both have my heart and that means… whatever makes them happy, not me, them…that …is what I want too. Unconditional love, doesn't have conditions. Maybe that's the part you can't understand, Mycroft. The only thing I have ever known you to love is Sherlock, and you don't offer it with an open hand, like a gift. You love him with chains and it isn't the same. So, don't make this whole thing something I'm ashamed of. I'm not ashamed. I matter. Not as much. Not everyone can see why, even me sometimes. But I do. "Molly says and walks to the door, not waiting to be officially dismissed.

She turns at the last minute and takes a deep breath, "Sherlock sees me and I see him. You know, even Jim must have seen something, because he killed all those people, and he never once threatened me. Here is another bit for your file…that you keep on me. You let Jim go. You had him and you hurt him. He had hundreds of people who he ordered around and any of them could have got him sorted. But he didn't call them. He showed up. At my flat. That was when there was a technical malfunction on my monitoring devices and you let him go and didn't worry about me. I wasn't that important, was I? I almost turned Jim away."

Mycroft has spun his chair and comes around his desk looking pale and horrified. "You foolish—"

Molly shakes her head and holds up her hand, "You're so sure. You always are. That's why you miss so much. I can't decide sometimes, what's right or wrong, but when I figure it out, I do the right thing. I don't always like it, but I do it. I didn't turn Jim away. I'm so glad that I didn't. Sometimes, everyone needs a friend. Even him. I know what you did to Jim and so do you. But, I don't think less of you. I helped him. And I have helped you. But anyway, when he left, he said one day he'd repay me. I never expected him to…not really. See Jim had all these people who were afraid of him, and he was afraid for any of them to see him, that…vulnerable and broken. He even fooled you."

"You knew what he was and you gave him sanctuary? Is that what you are saying? To me?" Mycroft is amused when he's truly furious.

Molly shrugs and rolls her eyes. "Yes. And he did pay me back. See, none of this conversation would be happening now, if I had not let him in. Because, he told me. That was how he paid me back and it worked out much better than I expected. Four people are alive right now because I made him fish and chips and treated his wounds."

"And that justifies your betrayal of my brother, in your mind, does it?"

"Just two days before Sherlock stepped off the roof, Jim called me at work, and he said he was in trouble and… he wanted to say farewell. He said he had figured out his problem and would I meet him for lunch. So, I did. He told me he was going to make Sherlock choose. He said that I needed to get over Sherlock and find someone nice and boring, like John. Isn't that funny?"

"Most amusing. Is there a point to this riveting tale?"

Molly shook her head and sighed, then swallowed and shifted her weight. Her voice was calm and she tried to be patient with him, beings he still wasn't paying attention to the right parts. " Jim told me that he was going to make it easy, because he was so tired. He said I was going to be his last good deed. He wanted me to know what a selfish, coward Sherlock is. Jim was going to prove it to me, so there would never be another moment of my life spent thinking I could love a man I didn't know. He said I was an angel and I only see the good in everyone. It isn't true, but he said he was going to show me how easy it is for angels to loose grace."

"Tell me exactly what he said." Mycroft is close and his eyes are narrow.

Molly closes her eyes and she can almost hear Jim's voice, "He said it like this, '_Either way, Sherlock falls, and my story ends. I have sent many on before me, to prepare my way. Time for new adventure. A new place to rule, because I own this hellish, boring rock now. You wouldn't let me pay you back and I won't leave any IOU's behind. Those left behind are the ones who suffer. I am going to leave you and one day, Molly Angel, you will suffer. One day, when you understand what a grand kindness I am doing. Not right now, I know, and it is Ok. You will bring me daffodils, because you know they are my favorite. They are blooming now. If you have any peace to make with him or me, this is your last chance. That is part of my gift to you, little angel hidden among the dead. You will be seeing me soon and I know you will be gentle with me. I am going to show you evil. I mean, the only difference between the genius you love and the one sitting before you, is that I admit what I am. I will be right. But you have to see it with your own eyes, and then they will be open for the rest of your life. Sherlock will let people who truly love him, die for him, when he has the power to stop it, and he will not even feel remorseful._' I knew that I couldn't stop him. But I knew how very wrong he was about your brother."

Mycroft is silent for a few heartbeats. Molly can hear Jim, going on and on about Daffodils.

"Daffodils" (1804)

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

Mycroft reaches out tentatively as Molly recites the poem, and rests his hand on her shoulder. "Go on Molly, tell me the rest."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_**"Go on Molly, tell me the rest."**_

"I didn't have any idea what to do. I didn't understand it all…even. John and Sherlock show up to the lab and demand I give up my lunch to help them. I tried to talk to Sherlock. I tried so hard to reach him and tell him that I would help. But he didn't understand, or he didn't want to. He said, 'what could I possibly need from you?' and the way he said it, made it perfectly clear that …everyone was right. I was nothing to him. He might care for John a little, but in the end, he would prove Jim right. It killed me. Jim cared more about me than Sherlock ever would. That was one of the big moments in my life and it was so unimportant, just like me. I lost all faith in your brother, right then. I didn't understand how he turned everything I tried to do for him, into this constant show of how incredibly ridiculous I am to him. I went to get crisps and I texted Jim. I told him, that he didn't need to prove anything to me, that I believed him. My eyes are open. Then…I texted him that I didn't want to watch three people who added love to the world, be taken for one who didn't. I asked him to take me, instead."

"Dear God. Why would you even—'

"Because, there wasn't one person in the realm of Daffodils, who saw me or needed me, in any way. All my life, the only one who saw me was my father and he was my whole world and it wouldn't matter. Not like it would if he killed you and John. I didn't know if the third person would be Mrs. Hudson or that woman, who he said was dead at Christmas, but who really wasn't, but who was dead again, but if she wasn't, Jim would know. But everybody loves Martha Hudson, everyone. I barely knew her, and I could see that. Sherlock threw that American out the window, for her."

"Yes, and I am still, to this day, dealing with…never mind. Moving on?" Mycroft says looking at his watch.

"Jim texts me a few times. The answer was no, of course. I work late. I hear about the arrest. The escape was on every news program and all those horrible…not true, things they were saying. I don't believe it for a second, but I was just glad that I was out of all reasons to care. He frightened me, lurking in the dark, like he was. Sherlock had caught on by then and here he was, the part of him, the best part of him, that he only lets me glimpse every once in a while." Molly walks to Mycroft's bar and pours two glasses of amber liquid without so much as a blink. She hands one to Mycroft and sips her own.

"And you decide once again to help him, despite your new resolve to encourage and protect the psychopath trying to kill him?"

"I offered. He said, he was going to die. He knew. He didn't know it all, but he knew." Molly settles into a comfortable chair, takes another larger sip of her drink, leans her head back and closes her eyes. "He had lost his grace Mycroft and found it at the same time. He was a terrified child and all grown up, finally, in that exact moment. He didn't just demand either. He was questioning everything about himself and he was not questioning right from wrong. He would die for John alone, that's the only person he thought was in danger. Jim didn't even need three, because he didn't understand Sherlock at all."

"So, you helped him. After everything? That makes no logical sense of any kind."

"Not to you. You observe, but you don't see. There were two names missing from the sniper list. Haven't you wondered? My name wasn't on it. And now you know the real reason why. Why was your name not on it?"

"Setting a sniper on me, would be a good deal more complex than just giving an order, my dear."

Molly smiled, "No, it wouldn't."

"I assure you, my security measures are more than adequate." Mycroft smirks.

Molly leans forward and looks him in the eye, "Sherlock says you are the most dangerous man I have ever met."

Mycroft smiles as if this is high praise. "He exaggerates. I am a simple civil servant."

"Last time I checked, a Strategic Relationships Manager does not require security measures, nor do they have the power to break into someone's flat, decorate it with tiny cameras and keep files of peoples every utterance with no questions ask about why. I looked you up, Mycroft. You don't exist. You have no titled position of any sort within the British Government. But, here we are, and you are not even close to the most dangerous man I've ever met. Jim could have had you shot too, if he'd wanted. Why were you not on the list?"

"What difference does it make?"

Molly finishes her drink and smiles before standing. "That is the point. Figure it out."

"Miss. Hooper, kindly take your seat."

"Mr. Holmes, if I can get in here, so can the most dangerous man I ever met."

Mycroft blusters with frustration. "He's dead. Moriarty is dead, unless you have something more you would like to share?"

"Yes, Jim's dead. But the most dangerous man I have ever met, isn't dead yet. I… am dating him. How do you suppose it will turn out for you, when Sherlock returns? John is a soldier and he has no war. It will kill him to know he just missed it, because he wasn't invited. If he breaks when he does find out, in the wrong way, I don't think 'more than adequate' will be enough. But, you probably know everything, and I'm just silly little Molly. Don't pay any attention to me." This time, she did leave and Mycroft didn't bother to stop her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

She didn't take the car door opened for her and offered. She didn't want to be driven home like some call girl sent on assignment. She bought daffodils from a street vendor and placed them on the grave. "I miss you, a bit. Sometimes, I think Sherlock does too. I don't know what to do. Your present is very hard to unwrap."

She walked all the way home, to John's flat.

John was waiting. One look and he is on his feet. "What did he say?"

"Later. I don't want to talk about it now. I don't even know how."

He put his arms around her. "What can I do to make it better?"

Molly looks up at him and whispers, "Call me in sick for at least three days and let's sneak away, where he can't find us, where he can't watch us."

John wilted in annoyed and horrified realization. "My God. I'm so sorry. He's been watching us. I am going to have a very serious talk with that man. No wonder Sherlock hated his guts. "

"No. He didn't hate him, and Mycroft wasn't trying to hurt me. He was a little afraid that this wasn't … my choice. But it is. No matter what, this was always my choice."

John blinked and tilted his head. "What could you possibly mean by that?"

"He saw the first night. It looked…odd." Molly shrugged in misery.

John blinked more and then it dawned on him what she meant. "And he waited this long to rescue you from a deranged gunman?"

"It wasn't the deranged gunman he was rescuing me from at all. It was. You said something, the other night and…It doesn't matter because it isn't true and I set him straight and that is all to be going on about."

"I said something?" his face crumpled up into confused concentration. "What the hell could I have said?"

"Nothing. Ok? It was just a huge miscommunication and I feel about this tall right now. He was trying to be thoughtful but he just comes off exactly …exactly like he's not meaning to and who cares. I really don't want to talk about it." Molly pulled away and began gathering her things.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

She turned and sighed. "I am tired. I'm going to my flat for a bit. Entertain him with brushing my teeth and sleeping for…forever," she says waving her arms indicating the invisible eyes that seem to be all around them. "Realizing what a show we must be, has kind of put me off the thought of that sort of activity, a bit. It's fine. I just need some time to get used to the fact that anyone besides us might be timing me or judging what we do. It's awful. It hurts. And there isn't anything we can do about it. It's not your fault. It's mine too. I dated Jim. Even dead, he's a danger…or his men are at least. It is the only safe option and he's right to have concern, even if it is just a precaution. He's just keeping us safe. I hate that it has to be this way, but I will be fine with it if I can just think for a little while."

"But…" John looked like he was going to be sick. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and wiped his face with his hand.

Molly sighed and she looked at him and tried to smile a little. "Just for tonight. My head is throbbing. I am sick to my stomach and I am probably going to have a good cry. My monthly has arrived and I don't have enough for the night. I am a lost cause for the evening. Please don't be angry or look at me like that. A good night's rest is all I need."

John stared at her trying so hard to study her and she just felt an ache of exhaustion seeping into her. She stood at the door, waiting for his judgment.

"Ok. It's good? Really? Tomorrow? I will see you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely. You have made an addict out of me. I promise."

He swallowed and nodded searching her face to see if she was even considering not returning. He crossed his arms and grinned sheepishly. "Serve them right if they have to refund the tickets to the little side line peep show the government is probably running."

Molly laughed at his joke, partly out of politeness but also because the picture of Mycroft having to sort that out was a bit funny. She arrived home and didn't bother to brush her teeth, she cried herself to sleep wondering how either John or Sherlock would ever forgive her for doing the best she could.

John woke her with a kiss and a hot cup of tea. Molly sat up in confusion. "What are you…How did you even get in?"

John blushed and looked a little ashamed, "Well, Sherlock could pick locks, but I am very charming. I stood it as long as I could, but I didn't want to rush you. Your landlady thinks we are engaged by the way. She is expecting an invitation to the wedding."

"Oh. Lovely." Molly frowned.

"Are you mad?"

She shook her head. "No…I'm just wondering how long I have before she starts thinking we snubbed her and kicks me out or worse, offers to help me plan it all. She can be a little hard to put off at times. What time…Oh no. I have to be at work in three hours."

"Actually you don't. I called you in with a doctor's excuse. Right now I need you to pop in the shower while I pack your suitcase," he whispers and winks at her.

"I don't have a suitcase, and I have to work. Who will cover?"

"Nope. Doctor's orders and I already cleared you. Five days and we are telling nobody. We are off for some private time. Big brother is not invited. Why don't you have a suitcase? Everyone has them." John says then touches the side of her arm. "I am kidnaping you. You said that was something I could do to make it better."

"I. But, it won't be the most romantic moment to have a romantic …kidnaping."

He looks confused then he figures out exactly what she meant and shakes his head as if she is far to repressed for this century. "I am not some horrified little child here. Unless you are experiencing pain during activity, that has no effect on my determination to shag you silly. Oxytocin is one of the best cures for menstrual cramping and it is a completely natural occurrence. We aren't living in the dark ages, sequestering our women and mumbling about magic curses."

Molly flushes, but avoids what he just said. "I've never been much of anywhere. Where are we headed?"

"Off the British Government's radar. It's a secret."

"How will I know what to take?"

"I am taking you straight to hell. That's your only hint. I am also packing for you so you need to only worry about your girly bits and accoutrements. Pack carefully, there are no real shops. I mean we aren't camping, but it can be a bit of a bother if there is something you must have."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

At half past ten they stood on Platform 1 of Paddington under the beautiful arch built in 1854 waiting to board the sleeper to Cornwall. John had spent the day teasing her about going to Hell. She quirked her head and told him he was being mean about his insistence that Hell exists in Cornwall.

Finally, after settling into their compartment he explained where they were actually heading. "There are no cars, no crime and there isn't much to do other than take long walks, watch waves, and exist. I used to go here as a child to visit Aunt Ida and Uncle Winston. Ida is my mother's sister. Their kids are a bit older than I am, but we used to have the grandest times. It is the place I was probably the most happy. Thought of just leaving London and going there when…he…But, I didn't have the ambition. The Isles of Scilly are like the spiritual gatekeepers of peace. Bryher is the smallest. I need to see it again and I am hoping that Hell's Bay will do for you what it has always done for me. If there is a storm, it is quite a show watching the waves crash in. There is only one hotel, which is often booked to the rafters or empty. We happen to be going on an off time, so I called my cousin who still lives there and we are expected for dinner and a little family howdy time, but other than that, we will have absolute privacy. Mycroft won't find us. The reservations are made in my cousin Kipper's name and there is no mobile service. The hotel has satellite internet, but if we don't log on, we won't have any bug infestations or any tails courtesy of Mycroft. It is a very tight place. There are less than 100 residents. I may be related to most of them, so be prepared."

Molly watches John as he speaks of their destination and his face has softened and his eyes are far away. She hasn't seen him this calm ever. Even when he was with Sherlock, they were usually on some case and dealing with Sherlock was not terribly conducive to inner harmony. "It sounds…just wonderful. Thank you. It sounds like this is a really important place to you…and…well…that you want to share it with me…"

"It's probably a little boring. I just thought all the glitter of Paris or the hustle of Brussels wasn't what we need right now. I wanted this to be more about us alone, rather than tourist schedules and crowded restaurants."

"It sounds lovely. I think you picked the perfect surprise." She squeezed his hand in reassurance.

"I am very glad. I know it's just stupid for me to have been so worried, last night, but I couldn't help but get that little skin crawl of fear that…It crossed my mind. A lot, actually, that this is not something I want to lose. I pictured it. You leaving or growing bored with me. I am ten years older."

"I'm not leaving. You make it sound like I can't do math. I knew how old you were, it's not new information. "

"I wondered if I am wrong to see how much I need this, so clearly. I know that we, well, I know I was just not in the best place to start any relationship. I am still on pretty shaky ground if I want to be honest about it. But I do want you to know that I am not just…on a lark for a warm bed. I don't think you are either, and I want you to know that I would never treat you like that. Casual, I mean."

"You know, there isn't anything wrong with casual. I am not one of those females who think everything is permanent. What we have is kind of perfect. I mean, we have fun and you are right, neither one of us is over him. We won't be for a long time—"

"But that is just it. You are the only one who could understand that. I will probably always love him. Not only that, but instead of it causing us problems, it's the very thing that brought us together. I don't have to hide how important he was to me. Not from you, because instead of being jealous and his ghost driving us apart, it's almost like it's guiding us." He is studying her, wondering if he's saying too much.

"Well that may be pushing it. If he were guiding us, wouldn't there be evil criminals and bodies involved?" Molly tries to lighten the conversation.

"That sounds about right. But, I think discovering that we have played porn stars to the British Government might count toward Sherlockish twists. I mean if any other girl I dated became aware of that fact, even now, I am sure at least two of them would have the means to disfigure me in a way that should not be mentioned." He smirks.

"Be careful. I do have a Stryker saw." Molly grins.

John nods as if he really should be a bit afraid. "Keeping that in mind. So Tea or sleep?"

They had a wonderful night exchanging silly stories of childhood and even landed on the subject of quirky former lovers. The knock on the door seemed far too soon, but John hopped out of bed and was smiling and tipping the steward before Molly comprehended where she was and why the bed was lurching. The smell of tea, had her up and making a quick trip up the corridor. John had breakfast all set out and the upper bunk folded back into place when she returned.

They sat facing each other balancing bowls of corn flakes, and cups of hot tea as they watched the sun come up. The ferry to the Isles of Scilly seemed sturdy and all business. Scillonian III was her name and Molly felt a flutter in her heart for her father as they pulled out of harbor. She wondered if he had missed this feeling of adventure just over the horizon when he pulled up anchor and opened his chip shop, so he could raise her.

There was another boat ride and quite a pleasant walk to the hotel. They took a late lunch at the cozy little bar all decked out in teal ocean blues and salt-washed wood floors and wicker. "Kind of New England meets Jamaica. It's very laid back here," John commented as he wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"I love it. I wish my flat looked like this, all open and cheerful."

They spent the afternoon, just walking. John stopped several times to talk to people. Most of them politely gave him their names and a detailed report on how they were connected. Molly lost track of it entirely once they got much past second cousins and John smiled and nodded politely. They stop by a tiny stone cottage and arrange to have dinner with Kipper the following night. They begged off that they were tired from travel and head back to the hotel. A few drinks, then it is off to see what absolute privacy might lead to, between two adults, who had rather extensively broad sexual boundaries.

The day is bliss. Molly always dreamed of making love on a windswept beach. John, true to his word, knew every nook and cranny of this island and soon found them a relatively private place with which to indulge her. She is mortified to discover that sand is not romantic when it discovers skin normally protected with a double clothing barrier. They giggle as they finally shower it all off and John slathers them both up with cream to relieve chaffing.

The evening is full of rowdy drinking and rich food, built mostly around freshly caught fish. It is glorious and welcoming and on occasion she could pick out an eyebrow here or a nose there or sometimes just a certain headshake that reminded her of John Watson. The next morning, John announces that he is going to be giving a few family check-ups, beings they all were complete bollocks at visiting the mainland for anything less than emergency amputation.

Molly laughs and decides she will grab a book and have a walk on the beach, poke around the ruins and when she got tired, she would flop down and read. She has her head bowed and is swept away somewhere in 1930's Chicago when John tickled her ear and handed her a perfect pink rose.

He plops down next to her. "I am in love with you." He says without preamble.

Molly's breath hitches, and she stares out to the water, stunned. "Oh. I thought."

"No. It wasn't just then. I thought I had better tell you. Give you time to make your excuses," he says trying to make it a joke.

"We shouldn't go too fast, John." She puts her hand on his knee. "Things could change."

"I see. Is there any hope that those feelings might be returned, someday?"

She hesitates, "Oh John. They already are. But we can't just…we have to be careful. I do think I love you, but it might be like this place. Not quite real, but a lovely idea."

He picked up a handful of sand and let it slowly filter through his fingers. "It feels pretty real to me. Having found it. I would like to think I won't let it slip through my fingers."

Molly sat quietly, her fingers feeling the warmth of the sand as they drug wavy lines in the surface. John picked up a stick and wrote 'Molly and John' in the sand. Molly leaned on him and his arm slips around her.

So low it just carries to his ears, barely above the breeze, she asked, "What would you do if he came back?"

John waits for her to say more. He has to swallow because his throat kept trying to close. Finally he kisses her ear and replies low and carefully, "He's not coming back, Molls. I'm sorry, but he's just not. That bag you saw me packing the first night? It wasn't just what you thought. See, I had it in my head that I needed to be ready. I told myself he was just away. I could make it through the day by planning for when he came and got me. I kept thinking that maybe he was off on some case for Mycroft and I was pretending. I packed things I might need. I kept waiting for a message telling me to come. I wanted that so much and every time I could get my hands on something I might need, I drug it home and put it in the bag."

He smooths her hair and kisses her temple. Molly looks up at him then buries her face in his neck. John speaks slowly and deliberately, "Every day I was just waiting. But, at night,…every night, I would be so disappointed. Sitting there, ready to go, everything I could need, from plasters to pain killers to an unmentionable amount of cash in six currencies. I kept saying, just one more day. I had been sitting with the bag and writing that letter for a long time. It was part ritual by then, the letter or the hope that escape bag represented. Every time I resolved to end it, I worried that he was on a plane right that moment. I could almost see him, bursting in the flat, not bothering to explain a damned thing and just demanding I go with him. I imagined his expression when I showed him that I had been expecting him. It would have pleased him, and yet he would have barely acknowledged that he expected any other outcome. Off we'd go without another word and he would find some item I forgot and we would bicker. He would say something like,' I gave you all that time to prepare, how could you forget to pack dental floss.' It was all I had, that little shadow of hope."

"You don't do that around me. When we are away from each other, do you?"

" Only once since. Soon after we started seeing each other. But, I promised you. I was so horrible to you. I know that. Don't know why you gave me a chance. But, that one night after we had, begun. I came to the end of my delusions. Reality kept showing me that I was going to lose my mind. Mycroft tried to tell me about the snipers. But, my guilt was too big. It was that last big story, about how he'd been cleared of all charges and Greg broke down, announcing it."

Molly nodded. "I remember."

" I knew then, really knew, was absolutely sure, he wasn't coming. Mycroft was busy crushing all the things crawling out of Moriarty's damaged web. Greg had spent months under fire to clear Sherlock's name. What did I do? I sat in a chair and blubbered and gave up on life. I had been utterly useless, and as horrible as I could be to anyone who wanted to help me. So, I decided to quit faffing around and I used to text him and I did that night. Last time, in fact. But, at the last second, and I mean the last second, I thought about you. I promised you. I kept meaning to tell you for days that we were done. But, I just couldn't get to the point where I didn't want to do one more day, with you."

Molly squeezes him, "I have never been so happy in my life, John. I have never been with anyone who I feel so easy with. I don't want to lose you."

John watches the waves and his eyes follow some seabird that flies close to the surf." I would have taken his place in a second, but I didn't get the choice. I would turn back time, and do it now. We didn't get to have any say in his bargain. I don't…God, you know how much I don't want to accept the truth. But we are alive and he isn't. So, I have two choices. I can follow him or I can take the life he left me and try to…make it worth his effort. I love you, and no matter what could have been, it doesn't make this less real. Just because neither one of us will ever forget him, doesn't mean, we have to avoid any hope for a little happiness. Feeling something good, doesn't erase him. But, just existing and never trying, doesn't honor him much either. You were so right about that."

"I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. I have no right to judge you and I don't. You are better now and don't blame that all on me, because you would have found something. You're so strong. It was a terrible time for you and everyone…I mean everyone, has those moments."

"You don't. You get mad sometimes and you cry, but you don't ever stop being cheerful and caring about people. He did see more about you than you think he did. I ask Sherlock once, why he didn't ask you out." John smiles and plays with a strand of sea-grass, sticking it in his mouth like a toothpick.

"Do I even want to know…what he said? I mean, it had to be something…just awful." Molly says closing her eyes and wincing in expectation.

"He said, 'Because she would let me push her around until I ruined her, and I would never forgive her for it. Besides, she would make me sentimental for her when she finally did leave me and it would distract me. I break people, John. Precious things must be admired from a distance, that is the whole concept behind museums,' and I told him he was an idiot. He said I should ask you out." John leans back in the sand stretching out clasping his fingers behind his head.

"But, you never did. Can I ask why? You have dated a lot of girls since I knew you." Molly leans back on her elbow, but towers over him creating shade on his face with her head.

"Couldn't. Bloke code. You were still, his girl. Even if he didn't know how to process you as a living breathing person who might not appreciate being admired and never touched." he says and looks at her with a little regret at what he's about to say, "It took death for that rule not to apply and dating you meant I was admitting it was real. That is one of the reasons it was so bad the night we were drinking. I wanted you so badly. I made my play for you and then you left, but it dawned on me what I had just done. I even used it, his death, as the clincher to get you in my bed. So I had nothing more to wait for. I then got it in my head that he was alive and everyone was playing some horrible game with me, I didn't need to search out some motive for the supposed conspiracy because I was far too drunk to think logically. I fixed that by telling myself, you were playing with me too. Which in my mind, my drunken mind, justified my actions. All a bluff."

Molly looked at him like she was reliving that night in a way that didn't happen. "Don't. Because I saw your eyes. It was not a bluff. I was only gone for half an hour. Tell me the truth, what changed."

John frowns and shakes his head. His lips press between his teeth and he lets a heavy breath out through his nostrils. "Hard to explain."

"Try?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

He nods. "Ok. Has to be I suppose. You should know, the truth of it. Rather it not, but, just remember I love you now. I didn't then. Not yet. This could, probably will, change things."

"No, it won't."

"I hope. Anyway." He clears his throat. "Ok. If you and I dated, as friends, maybe he sent you and he was alive. But, I screwed that up, and we were jumping into sex. I had somehow associated that to mean that I really knew he was dead and was refusing to follow, because I was a coward. He did not want to die and he did. I did want to die and kept making excuses. I was drunk and that tends to fuel my, indiscretionary nature, and I was angry with myself. I was losing him, once and for all and it was your fault and I had been a gentleman and that was going to be my last interaction with a human being. There is a thing I do, very hard to explain, but I flipped the switch put it in gear and let it all just fall away."

"You flipped on Mr. Hyde?" Molly asks.

John nods and looks miserable. " I heard the downstairs door open and my heart heard the soft way you walked up the stairs and I was so certain it was Sherlock. I was surfacing. Third step from the top squeaked and he would not have stepped on it. It was you and I hated you for not being him. I could have done anything I wanted to you at that moment and there would have been no consequences, not for me. I sort of gave up and in a terrible way. I just. Let. Go."

"Four choices." Molly says thinking them through again. "But, I didn't pick the one you expected."

"No. You…did not. You picked the least likely. You picked the only one I didn't plan for. The first choice, in my mind was for you to walk away, and I would have let you do that. But, people don't do that in that situation. I knew you wouldn't. It was there, but it didn't count. You doing what I requested was a wild card and it didn't count. I told you that you were in no danger and it was a lie." He says and his breath is beginning to race and deepen.

"You wouldn't have hurt me. I will not believe it. You wouldn't."

He swallows and his Adam's apple bobs several times. He breaths deeply and opens his eyes and turns his head toward her. "I wish that were true. We said no lies between us and if this ends us, then so be it, because we can't move forward if you don't genuinely know who I can be. Who I was, right at that moment."

"It doesn't matter. You don't have to—"

"Yes I do. And you will see why very soon. So trust me on this, how I feel has changed but it doesn't change that I had something in common with Sherlock." John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his face stops contorting with nerve impulses defining him and he opens his eyes and they are suddenly steady. He looks at her directly and she realizes there is nothing of the John she knows and adores here right now.

"Hello, Mr. Hyde." She whispers and sits up before she realizes that by moving away, she has just told him that she instinctively recognizes he is dangerous.

His voice is different, more like Mycroft's or Sherlock's, but harder and with so little inflection he sounds like he isn't completely alive. " Mine came from years of practice, just like his. He had emotions, Molly. He really did. I don't know what happened to him but he had at some point learned to turn them off. It protected him. But, he got trapped there. He couldn't turn them back on. He wasn't in control, at all. He had lost control. I can do the same thing you see. You recognize it. You cleverly named it. I can shut myself off entirely, not feel anything, I can be exactly empty. I have always been in control of it. It is a tool, nothing more. I wasn't just an army doctor, and perfecting this tool was a life or death necessity. The problem is that it is also seductive. It is easy to get lost here. It is an angry servant who has all the patience of a black vacant cave. There are things in my life that I should feel terrible about doing. I feel nothing. I know about it and I know how I should feel, but I don't. I do not make decisions in this mode because emotions are necessary to judge right from wrong. When you returned, this side was making decisions. There is no right or wrong here. People who get stuck here, do not live socially productive lives. They can't love, or feel guilt, or know emotional pain. It doesn't exist. I have a deeper version than Sherlock did, his cracks were not sealed and I wanted to fix it. The problem for my emotional side is that I did fix it. I didn't know, my timing would be at the worst possible second that it could happen."

"Please, turn it back off."

"I will once this is said. The emotional coward can't do it and is determined to explain something stupid to you. Leave or undress, half the choices. Two others. Physically attack or stay and watch is how it was presented. Those two led to the same area. Attack and you would have been overpowered, thus volunteering for a much more succinct ending to the evening. Stay and watch, and it would have been a game of intimidation and been a much more dubious encounter, but do note that this side of the barrier does not affect physical response, only the means by which they are obtained. The only favorable part, is I would not have killed you. Not much of a virtue there, but it is a line in the sand. That is what changed in the thirty minutes you were gone. An order to terminate life was issued by the emotional side and handed over to the logical side while in a reduced capacity. Emotional side did not have the strength of will to stop it because even the fact he could contemplate the desire to harm you established that there must be an end. The only possibility, to return to control, was the wild card. One, impossiblle abort button, and you pressed it. The emotional side is a coward and didn't want to die so much as end the guilt and pain. An inner battle of wills so dark and terrible and free to carry out the emotional cowards command, by any means necessary. The rudder could not steer a sinking ship. Imagine a drunken bar fight within and emotion was losing. Emotion had curled up like a little cry baby and given up."

Molly shivered and rested her chin on her knees, her arms folded protectively. "John. Please come back. I want to go back to the hotel now, please."

"Don't like me much do you? You shouldn't. This is who you threw a lifeline to." The eyes glittered and looked her up and down and sighed with regret. "It was very nice knowing you, Molly. Very. Nice."

Molly scrunches her eyes closed and rocks herself. She would not cry but she could not look at him any longer. Mycroft had no idea what would be coming for him. But, she was pretty sure it would get her first and it would be horrible.

The waves lap on shore and Molly waits for him to say more horrible things.

The voice that speaks next, is gentle and filled with regret and deep sorrowful fear. "I am so sorry, but it is important to me that you actually see that. You will probably never see it again unless you are in danger. Or there is some overwhelming disaster and my emotions are getting in the way of saving lives. It has always been a tool for me. Nothing more. But, as I was not getting over …him, I …started using it as a crutch, only didn't realize how close I had come to letting it have control. I was honestly not expecting you. I did ask you to stay, and it would not have been like that. I really was fine and I would have been delighted wherever you decided to sleep. I had really had such a good time but then I did, just like it told you, I curled up in a ball and I said enough. The critical voice in my head started up and you had given me a nice evening, no thanks to me, and how long will this last, a week or two dates? Did I really want to wait for the inevitable? I would screw it up. Me. Not Sherlock. Because, any of the times he interrupted my dates…all I had to tell him was, No."

Molly looks up and John is smiling looking up at the sky and a tear leaked from the corner of his eye. She sags into a more relieved posture. "It isn't a full split personality. Not yet. But, it is going there and you are afraid?" Molly asks.

"Sometimes when Sherlock wasn't on guard, his emotions had begun to bubble up unexpectedly. I got so frustrated with him, but I only gave up on him once. I will never forgive myself for it. Not ever. Because I gave up on him and it was the last thing I said to him, face to face. If he had died, in that other frame of mind, just a cool, logical, calculating robot, then maybe I could accept what I did to him. But I opened that damned door and I hurt him so badly that it all flooded out and it may have cost him the whole game. If I had just walked away, just accepted what he said, then he would not have been distracted and he might have found some way to win. I will never get to take it back and it might be something that I won't ever fix."

"It wasn't your fault, John."

"My life was used against him. My own words took away his best weapon in the most crucial battle he ever fought. On the phone with him, I could not get there. My emotions kept control. If I could have just thought clearly, it might have saved him, somehow. I have always relied on my ability to think under any circumstances. I failed. He was terrified. He cried. He didn't want to die. But he was still braver than me. He did it. He stepped off that roof against everything he wanted. I just stood there. Legs of rubber and that logical side of me didn't come. It betrayed me. You did his post-mortem and I know you afforded him every respect. But I wasn't there. I should have been and had every ability to make it happen. He would have done it for me. But it was just gone, it was suddenly faulty and I don't know why."

"You're being too hard on yourself. It will destroy you. None of that is even true except that you were used against him and you had no control of it and it wasn't just you."

John stands abruptly and puts on a wide smile, wipes his eyes, and shakes his head. "Thank you. For saying that. I don't want you to be afraid of me. I'm pretty sure I have this all under control. I know my limits and will never take a chance and surpass them around you again. But, I am a bit of a coward about some things, now, which is new. I always thought I was a good man, and I proved myself wrong there. That is so hard to tell you. I love you. I'm not ashamed of it. I am pretty damned chuffed about it. But, if I should happen to lose my mind, anytime soon, I want you to know. I'm trusting you, as a fellow doctor, to be aware of these symptoms and the fact there are marked personality changes. If we see, or you see, anything that concerns you, I bank on you to walk away. You're all I have, so I can't."

Molly fiddles with the sand and nods as he speaks. "I'm not walking away."

"Yeah, ok. Um. We said honest and, believe me, I have not wanted to tell you any of that business, but had to be done. Now I am going to go walk up the beach here for a bit. Give you some time to think. If we are still together, I will see you back at the room. We will have a nice dinner and we won't talk about this again, unless it's necessary. If you decide, you can't deal with my baggage, just go to the desk and explain you would like a second room. I won't bother you. I'll stay here, out of your hair and take a different train. You can leave me a note, or I'd prefer not, if that's good, because you don't have to explain. And I love you, by the way. Either way."

Molly watched him walk up the beach. He was far out of earshot by the time she spoke. "I'm not leaving, you idiot. I love you more than you'll ever know and I will only walk away when the tall bloody idiot finally decides he's tortured you enough. I don't care how scary you are. You don't scare me, John."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

She sat in the room for two hours waiting, trying to decide what to say to him when he came through the door. A mean grin curled onto her lips. She tucked all her things away as if she had left, then folded a blank piece of paper and placed it on the bed.

She took off her clothes, and stood there without a stitch, waiting for him to return. She heard him, just outside the door. She stepped as far into the corner as she could. He would pick up the paper, see it was blank, turn in confusion and find her posing seductively.

She began to worry he lost his key. "Please don't let him get the manager," she whispered.

Finally the key slipped in the lock, and then she hears sound of the door opening. He stood there for so long she was tempted to peek round the corner. He sighed and tossed the key on the table. She heard the door close softly and then he stepped into the WC and there was no sound at all.

She waited. She changes poses, because her arm is tired and whatever he's doing, this is not exactly working out as she'd planned. She assumed that all that walking had hastened his bowels, which she didn't want to interrupt, but then she started to be worried. This was taking too long. It was supposed to be three seconds of let down and a happy surprise, not fifteen minutes of silence while he cracked to pieces.

Molly takes a step around the corner, but the door is partially closed and the light is off. Her stomach flutters with dread. Her mind catalogues all the quiet ways to die and why else would he be sitting in the dark, but to asphyxiate, bleed, or slip into some drugged coma. She pushes the door open and flicks on the lights.

"Jesus." He yells.

"No. Were you expecting him? Why are you in the bathtub, in the dark, with your clothes on?" Molly asks taking tiny steps toward him, in terror he is up to something she's not going to like.

He lays back and lets out a sigh of relief and then starts to chuckle. "As soon as you explain, everything gone, note on the bed and naked in my loo, I will explain the tub bit."

Molly sits on the edge, giving him the once over before speaking. "I am in your loo starkers because you did not read your note."

"What's it say?"

"It doesn't say anything."

"Then how do I read it?"

"You don't. But you didn't look at it."

"If it's blank why should I look at it?"

"Because, then you would have turned and seen me and I would have whispered 'surprised' and then you would be pouncing on me and I would not have been standing out there looking and feeling stupid that you're floating a loaf in here or something, wasn't a very good romantic surprise, then I peek and see the light is off and my heart falls with all the things going through my head and I can't even breath—"

He pulls her into the tub on top of him and says, "You're breathing now, but only out. Two deep breaths and then, I am kissing you."

He kissed her several more times before revealing that he used to sleep in the bathtub when he was sick because the cool porcelain on the back of his neck felt good and would settle his stomach and sooth his head. In the army, he often had to sleep rough and he always picked a cast iron tub over a floor or even a bed because stray bullets didn't tend to go through them. He had prepared himself that she would be gone and wasn't very surprised when he saw the evidence. He just wanted a cool dark place to rest for a while.

"I was just dozing off, and you almost gave me a wardrobe malfunction of the brown trouser variety."

"I'm very sorry. This didn't work out quite how I planned. I feel ridiculous." Molly squirms around in discomfort and settles on him in a straddle. She snuggles down and lays her head on his chest.

"Better?"he asks the top of her head. "Good. Ok, this is going to sound unappreciative, and it is not meant to, but you really do need to let me know if I have missed something here. So just tell me the truth and we will deal with it together, but I do have the right to know what I am getting myself into just for the purpose of disclosure."

"That sounds like a very serious subject." She teases.

"Are you clinically insane, Molly Hooper, or perhaps your sense of self-preservation atrophied at some point? Because I am without any understanding of how the conversation out there leads to this place, in which you are comfortable to be here. To put it in perspective, I had a small hope that perhaps you would give me a chance, and you would still be here to talk it all out. The expectation was, you would see that I have some major work to do, and you would ask questions and then we would try to form a game plan about our future." His hands move up and down her spine and his voice is filled with amusement as he continues, "So, help me out a bit and please explain what unfathomable thought process, went from me out there laying out my entire arsenal of reasons for you to get away, while you can, to you are in my bathtub naked."

"I love you." She says softly.

"Thank you, that is amazing and I love you too. But, if you look at the facts, PTSD, combined with grief, have done quite a number on me. I handed you a realistic and truthful picture of my probably deteriorating mental state. I am in no condition to be worthy of someone like you. The fact is, I am going to require years of therapy and I am not completely confident that I'm stable…or safe to be around. Once I enter treatment, my license will more than likely be pulled, which will plunge me into a rollercoaster, because it will take away the one thing that has always allowed me to have purpose. You took all of that in, and your answer is, this? I am wondering if I am the most damaged person in the room, after all."

Molly sighs, but doesn't move. "You are making me feel as if you are asking me to leave. You told me all of that, to frighten me away, and you think that telling me how close to broken you are will make it all so easy. I think that the only reason you are even thinking of these things is for me. You never wanted help, this whole time and it's just now that you are noticing that you aren't fine. But, if I do leave, you won't do any of it. I don't think you are really meaning to, but you are testing the waters and I can tell you now that that is much more scary. What you will do to yourself, is more than likely use me as proof that it isn't worth doing. I know what you tried to make this. It was a test run. You didn't think I would see it for what it is. But, I do."

"You think you know everything? You think you're Sherlock Holmes, deducing me?"

Molly shakes her head. "Not like him, no. He set details in a big bowl and threw them in the air and made sense of them. I could never do that, but it doesn't mean I don't see things others don't."

"What do you think you see? What if you see wrong? You didn't see Moriarty. When I think about you alone with him. Do you know how much danger you were in? It makes me sick. He could have used you against him just as easily as he did me. It was pure luck you are here at all, you know. But, I am more concerned that you are making the same exact mistake now. What if I can't do this? What if I can't be fixed?"

"You can be."

John scrunches up his face in pain, closes his eyes in frustration, "You don't know that. Don't say you do, because you don't. I would rather be dead then take a chance of hurting you. It hadn't crossed my mind as much, because we have been sort of taking it day to day, but I wanted to tell you I love you and that made me think about futures. I want one, with you…but I don't want it to end up with me going round the twist one day and harming you. Not worth it. This isn't how I planned this trip. But, I gave you all the information to make the right decision and you made the one I want of course, but the wrong one."

Molly sighs, and stands up, extricating herself from the tub. She grabs a robe and slips it on and ties it. "I am not making a mistake, but I don't have any idea how to convince you. You are basically saying that the only possible reason I could care for you is because I'm crazy. You think I have some, thing for emotionally damaged guys, and maybe I do. I mean, Sherlock then Jim and now you. "

John stands and rests his hands on her arms and pulls her close, gently bumping foreheads and looking at her with a relieved kindness. "Yes."

"Then look at what has been happening to both of us since this began. You act like you told me some big secret out there. You didn't. You clarified some things. But, everyone knows you are not stable. Everyone. Did you really think that wasn't obvious? But the part you are missing is that you have come a very long way since then. You are more stable now than you were. It isn't like you got worse being around me. If you want to get rid of me, I won't stop you. Just say it, but before you do, maybe you don't know this, but it has been a two way street here. You make me feel special and desirable and even pretty. You make me feel lucky, just to be around you. You are funny, thoughtful, caring, smart, brave and I know you are good. The best. Don't take my word, he saw it. He loved you. If the smartest person, who loved almost nobody, picked you, why do I have to be crazy to see it too?"

"But, you are basing it on something we will never know. He and I never had a chance to find out any of that."

"Yes. You did. People don't do that for people who they don't love more than themselves. It doesn't have to be said out loud to be true, and saying it out loud doesn't make it true. I have always been stubborn and you won't scare me away. But all you ever have to do is ask, and I'll go."

"So, I guess you're staying then?"

"Glad we got that sorted." She says flippantly and then giggles.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

They take a local water taxi to St. Mary's and have dinner. This time they dine to the sounds of a local teen band that specialized in folk music. She and John danced a bouncy silly version of something that John knew well. She'd only seen that sort of dancing on telly. They passed these days, without a cross word or any more discussion of how much he feared he was breaking. It felt like they had slipped into a dream version of life. The pace was slow and yet it didn't drag. There was no storm but they watched the waves in Hell's Bay. When the tide was out it is possible walk to the facing island of Tresco. They spent too long there one day and had to wade back.

Molly felt the tension in her seep away and she loved watching John who had reached near celebrity status as Bryher's visiting doctor and yet someone who belonged among them.

Molly dreaded leaving and having to go back to the real world. She had held this terrible secret that silently ruled their lives, but here, it was far away. For a few days, she could let herself pretend and imagine a life like this. She could let her heart whisper what a wonderful man she was with.

"I have one last thing to show you." He said after breakfast on their last morning. They trudged along in a brisk wind and Molly was certain even the light was burning as a shield from the harm of the world. Finally they arrived at a high stone maze.

"It's beautiful." Molly said. The scenery was breathtaking and the stones seemed a little mysterious but not ostentatious like Stonehenge. It wasn't even as big as the ones across on Tresco. This was small and forgotten and Molly could have built it herself.

John took a deep breath and they very carefully walked through the stones, around and around. When they got to the middle, John faced her and his eyes matched the deep north blue ocean. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "When I was young, we came here and at the time we dreamed and right here it seemed like it could all come true. Well, I wanted to be a doctor and I wanted to be a soldier. Those dreams were born here. When I met Sherlock, I looked in his eyes and I saw this place. Out there, the shallow water is so like his eyes, always changing color. Even when the tide goes out it is his grey eyes. For me, now, the two memories will always be sewn together. So this is the only place that the three of us could sort of exist all at once, to me. I don't know if there is any magic in the world, but for me, if there is, it's here. This place, it's plain and ordinary like me. But, I am betting on the magic."

Molly is a little lost and says kindly, "It's beautiful. I like thinking about you here and still a little boy full of dreams and…oh, sorry."

"Maybe I am." His eyes look at her directly and his lips curl into a smile. "You see, I know that this is rushing and I almost decided not to do this at all. I don't mean to push you or hurry you. Your right about going slow. It's the smart plan. So, it isn't now or never. The thing is, I always knew when I did this, it had to be here and I don't know when we…We are here and it feels both real and magical so…" John rolls his eyes and blushes as he gets down on his knees and reaches in his pocket. He looks at the little box and takes a deep breath then has to push it out.

"Ok. I know. I know that this isn't what you, no scratch that. " He takes another deep breath and begins again. " Molly Hooper, you have brought magic to my very dark world. I don't want an answer today, so stop trembling. I am not putting you on the spot. You don't even have to look at it if you don't want to. Just take the box and know that this is the place I asked you to do me the incredible honor of considering the idea of being my wife. It doesn't have to be now. It can be, but I …anything you want. You know me. The best and the worst. I will protect you with my last breath. I will try to never hurt you in any way I can prevent. Just put this idea on the table and know it is meant with all my heart. I am not perfect, but I am…here…on my knees…wanting you to understand that I do love you and I do think we could make a life…worth who knows how much. Maybe we could look back someday and say that we took the broken terrible things that have probably nearly killed us both and we did something good. Please, just think about it?"

Molly feels sick. She wants to shout yes, rip open the box and never look back. But she can't even begin to sort the emotional disaster this sweet man has just caused to burst. She holds the box and tears well and spill in her silent misery.

John stands and puts his arms around her."Don't cry. Please don't cry. You don't have to say a word right now. Just… please, God, please don't say no. Tell me no, later, if that's what these tears are about, but just lets go home and one day, when the idea has had time to settle and you can look forward a little and one day you know for sure what you want, then you can let me know. I just need you to know that this is where I mean for this to go if you will have me…whenever you're ready. Ok?"

Molly sobs louder but she nods. John laughs then looks down at her. He tilts her head back and his cheeks are damp as well. "Is that yes to me or yes to thinking about it? Or just yes you hear me."

"Oh, this is just…the worst thing that could happen. No, I mean, I want to say yes. I do want to just say yes, but I can't. It's so unfair. I want this and I will never be able to… It's just so awful."

"A bit lost here? Breathe and maybe try it again." John says.

Molly nods and tries to put her brain in order. "Ok… I want to say just yes, but if I do that and things work out badly, then I will think I should have thought about it more carefully. So I will think about it. Probably do little else, in fact, for the rest of my life. Nobody has ever ask me and this was so…dammit it is perfect and so are you…but..."

"But you need time to think. Knew you would. It's fine. As long as you need, I promise. We can talk about it all. It's just this is the spot, and now is the time, for you to be sure that this is just about you and me. I don't think either of us ever wants to forget him, and that's ok. His memory is welcome, always. However, what I feel for you… It isn't about Him, or his brother, or anyone. This is ours. Just ours and we will do this our way. Yes or no, it's only John and Molly. These stones are said to speak of time and destiny. All the time you need… to figure out, if you are my destiny."

Molly stepped back and nodded at him wiping her nose on her sleeve and sniffing. She looked down at the tiny grey box in her hand and without thinking she flipped it open and sighed. She watched it sparkle in the light of this place and hoped it had some way of sucking up a bit of magic that would somehow make this all turn out some way other than her heart being broken again.

"Is it? Ok? I can exchange it if you don't, if it's too plain," he says chewing his lip, hoping she is pleased but not confident he'd made the right choice.

"When I was little, I dreamed too. And this, is better than all of mine." Molly's voice was hoarse and squeaky.

"I wouldn't mind if you said yes now."

"Then for now, yes. But, you will be the one to change your mind. Not me. But, for a while, I'm going to wear this and show it to absolutely everyone and I won't regret it for a second no matter what happens."

John is too focused on the amazing, yes, and the emotional rush that has filled him that he can't quite understand what she means by the rest, so it doesn't matter. He slips the ring on her finger and he tingles all over as he realizes that his future just said yes. This is a life moment that changes everything in a blink. A death led here. Pain and sorrow led here, but only real magic could have made this small dream of a misplaced man become possible.

He kissed her and she kissed him back. Mycroft's words were still floating around and she knew it would all blow up like a bomb in her face. It crossed her mind that when Sherlock found out, he would have to come back. He would never let John marry her, when he was so in love with him. He would have to tell John he's alive.

It is not the greatest plan. It has a few flaws. But the tiny bit of truth that she didn't really want to look at very closely, was the fact that she actually did love John Watson and Sherlock Holmes enough to risk more than just life, but dreams to save them. Life ends, dreams go with the dead. She knew they belonged together and even though it would hurt, one day she knew she would look back and know that she had made their dreams come true. When the time came she would love them with an open hand, and it would hurt like brains on concrete, but true love needs no chains and no words.

In the meantime, she could always say that she had been asked. She could always have this moment of romance and the dream that if it happened once it would happen again. One day someone would come along and she had this perfect wonderful man to gage if any of the rest were worthy. She had this, and from now on, all the dull little creatures and people with sleepy droll lives had better be on notice that Molly Hooper would never settle for less. Maybe she loved Sherlock because he was dangerous. Jim certainly was and she had liked him very much. She knew Mycroft is dangerous and yet she genuinely enjoys his company most of the time.

John Watson is dangerous. He hadn't even hidden it. Maybe he was the most dangerous of all, and here she was.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Half the town turned out to say farewell and Molly got to flash her ring and be congratulated. Maybe it wasn't going to be real for long, but while it was she was going to take full advantage of the fun. For right now, she wasn't the mousy little odd girl from the morgue or even that pathetic creature who was wasting her time waiting for a freak to notice she existed. They could all bugger off, because Sherlock would never be a freak to her. John would never scare her away, because maybe dangerous people liked her because they recognized something familiar. Not right away, she could fool anyone for a while.

But, Molly is a little dangerous herself. When she loves, she hands it over, and does it without guard or demand that it be returned. It didn't mean getting what she wants and it meant knowing terrible wounds and living with hidden scars. Loving someone was easy, but doing the right thing with that feeling was a hard battle to wage. She loves in a dangerous way and she could not regret that.

She knew peoples regrets in the end. She could see the answers in their overworked hearts and their final blank stares of loneliness. They had followed the rules and sometimes the rules really are wrong. She was at an age where she should be raising a family, but instead she was building a temple and sometimes she felt trapped there by all the broken rules and lies. One day she would, brick by brick, and day by day be finished with her life and her Temple.

The pathologist, who would read the empty statue of Molly, might not find evidence of child birth or a crowd of people weeping, but they would not find a heart filled with bitter regret or eyes that say none of it mattered. So many people wore expressions and lines that spoke a hard truth. They only saw all the important things at the moment they had nothing left to change.

She would rather be friends to extraordinary men, than ever settle for nobody, just to have somebody. She would love to marry John, but this day would always be a symbol of more to her, whether that happened or not.

She is Molly, the one who Sherlock Holmes trusted with his life, his secrets and his heart. She is Miss. Hooper, who tells off Mycroft Holmes and lives to tell the tale. She is Miss Molly Angel, who could mourn and miss a lunatic because he opened her eyes, even if he was wrong. She is Dr. Hooper, who Captain John Watson, M.D. has slipped a promise, that he would live, just for her, on her finger. It takes a bit of true love to agree to do something that hard for someone. Staying Alive. John might not actually marry her, but the important part is that he would be alive not to.

If she put all of that in a basket, she had to admit, fairy tales of love didn't hold a candle to the real thing. If she was very lucky, they would both forgive her for loving them so overwhelmingly much. She would not stop loving either one and one day, when her two loves were happy, all she would feel is happy for them. Maybe, if he paid attention, even Mycroft would understand.

God, London smelled funny. She had always liked it before, but returning from the fresh air out beyond Land's End made London air feel like prison for her lungs. There should have been a warning label on the soot. Exhaust fumes made the world look hazy and the constant movement of people suddenly felt oppressive instead of exciting.

"Do you smell that?" She asked as they exited Paddington.

"Welcome to London," he said back but wrinkled his nose in agreement.

"I don't want to go to work tomorrow."

"Then don't go. We will go to Paris instead," he suggested with several pecks on her cheeks and brow in the cab.

They discussed all the advantages of going to Paris for an early pre-honeymoon. By the time they pulled up to her building, John was actually not joking any longer.

"John. It's a lovely idea and we can talk about it. I have some holiday time, I never seem to take it, but not right this minute. I don't want to go to work, but I need to go to work."

"mmm." He opens the door to her flat, "Well, that makes a huge difference then."

She and John have tea and say bye in their traditional form. Molly, wrapped only in her robe flops on her sofa and turns on the telly.

It is fifteen minutes later that she startles and sees the man standing in the door to her bedroom. "Oh, God. Sherlock! What are you doing here? How long…"she takes a deep sigh and looks at the floor.

"Congratulations seem to be in order." He says as if he could care less, but Molly hears the control in his voice and the pain underneath that he's trying so hard to hide.

"Congratulations won't matter as soon as you tell him you're alive. Tell him. Please. I can't keep this up much longer." Molly's voice is filled with hopeless defeat because she sees at once that he feels betrayed and won't let her in.

"You have stolen my John. And he has stolen my Molly." He looks so amused, just like Mycroft.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_"You have stolen my John. And he has stolen my Molly." He looks so amused, just like Mycroft._

"No. But you need to stop this. Can't you see, he's jumping toward something because it feels more real, than you being dead. That's all. He's suffering and it's gone on too long. He's going to break if you don't and I don't think you have any idea how much suffering that will bring."

Sherlock smirked and waved his hand toward the bedroom. "Is that what those ridiculous noises amounted to? Suffering? Funny, I rather thought they meant something else. Perhaps you aren't as skilled as you think? I seem to recall that the motive for that activity was not a painful experience…unless of course Irene is involved."

"You shouldn't have watched. God. You and your brother. You and he are determined to send me round the twist. I know I can't marry him, okay? But, I told him I would think about it to buy you some time. The thing is, if you wait much longer, I might not be strong enough to say no. I care about him. I love him and I'm sorry that it happened, but I have no control over this. You have put me here and I am trying to help, but it is going to destroy me…" Her voice begins filled with fire but by the last sentence, her anger has quivered and flashed out like consumed paper.

Sherlock swallowed and bowed his head. "I returned because I lost contact with you. I feared something had happened. Nice job throwing Mycroft's crew, by the way. I thought you were in danger."

"I am in danger. I'm dangerously close to thinking you don't understand that we are in danger of—"

"In fact, you were not. This was a waste of time. Except now, I rather _am_ in danger." Sherlock opened her window a crack and flopped down next to it. He pulled hard on the cigarette as he lit it and blew most of the smoke out the window.

Her own anger comes to a full-stop. "What…what has happened?"

"In my frantic search for you, I have made a mistake." He spits out the last word as if it is disgusting. He blows a lungful of smoke up into the room and adds in a tone of philosophical boredom, " Only a matter of time before they figure it out."

Her world undulates as she realizes what her selfish actions could mean. "Oh. No. I'm sorry. I should have thought." She wilts internally trying to figure out how to fix it all. She doesn't know what to say and feels as jumbled in thought as she ever did around him.

" If I really were dead, you actually would marry John, wouldn't you? Because you want to? You actually have feelings for him?" Sherlock says this staring away from Molly, as if he's perhaps talking to himself.

She can't think and begins rambling, "I do care and yes I would marry him and I'm sorry. But it doesn't change anything. He would never pick me over you. All you have to do is tell him. We can pretend to be engaged while you finish…your travels. Nobody will suspect now. They will blame his mood change on me." Molly says it softly. She knows it is true and hates it.

Sherlock nods. "And what about you? Me or him? Who would you pick?"

"I don't get a choice. As soon as he finds out that I have lied, then he will never …" she shakes her head and closes her eyes, not willing to cry, but not quite able to convince her face not to prepare.

"Good. Because he's never going to find out."

Molly's eyes fly open. "What are you saying?"

"Oh please, are we playing stupid again? I want you to marry him. I mean it. The chances of him ever finding out have just become very small. Makes it easier really. Now I can do what I must, without the two of you being a constant distraction." He says in his most aloof, snotty way.

"Sherlock, what do you mean? I haven't meant to…distract you…How can…" Molly is flustered; she crosses the room and goes down on her knees to perch next to him. "What do you mean, he won't find out? That was always the plan. From the first minute. Getting you back to John was what this was all about. I know you're angry, but this…" she holds out her hand and the small round diamond sparkles. "It's only real for me. You _have_ to come home."

Sherlock finishes his cigarette and flicks it out the window into the garden. He stands and sighs, obviously not wanting to have this conversation. "I won't be contacting you anymore. You are correct. I can't expect this from you. You have been a true friend and knowing I am leaving you in the care of each other, my two true friends, is brutally comforting. Where… ever, I am, I will always think of you."

Her teeth are clamped tightly, giving her words a buzzing sound as if she is speaking a hornet dialect. "No. You are not doing this to me. Not now. Not after it all." She glares at him in fury.

"Tell me? Would you have helped me, if you knew then, how it ended?"

"You know I would. How can you ask me that?" Molly is angry. She feels her face burning; it always goes red when she is mad. Her heart is beating loudly and still picking up speed. "I won't lie to him for the rest of my life. Dammit. I love you both. I won't live like that. Is that what you think of me? That I can just forget and lie and ever think I was a good wife to him when it is all paid for, on your life? "

He bends down close to her, his voice a purr of control and his eyes almost laughing at her. "Give this to John, for me, won't you?" His lips touch hers and she steps back but he anticipates her and clamps her closely too him, demanding her submission and unwilling to let her go. She stops struggling and folds her heart into this kiss, trying to say all the things he won't listen to about how he has not lost anyone.

He looked at her as if memorizing her, and then he smiled. "This is goodbye, Molly Hooper. Curiosity killed the detective. I just wanted to know." He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

He opens the door and she grabs his arm stopping him, "You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"

He looks over her head for a split second as if searching for his answer, then focuses his full attention back on her eyes. His mouth quirks up at the corners and he says dramatically, "No. I am going to do something brilliant, just as I always do. This is the last thing. I know how to finish it once and for all. You have just given me the motive to make sure it works. Lay low, pay attention."

"He's not safe yet, is he?" her voice sounds desperate and she can't help it.

"Not yet. But I will make sure he is. You will both be fine." He places his hand over hers, trapping her fist between his palm and his arm. Her grip softens and his tone softens a little, his eyes drop. "I do hope you have a happy life. Be patient with him, he can be a little stubborn and very bossy. Do act like he is amazing, and make sure he always feels wanted and needed. Because, he is so full of light and the world would be less beautiful without him. I would have been kinder to him, if I had been capable of it. I know you will be." He says gently.

Molly's eyes are wide and pleading. She shakes her head denying what he says, not wanting to hear this. "Don't say this. I won't let you throw this away. I am not enough to save him." Her throat is closing giving her an airy teen voice. She feels like a mouse squeaking, rather than someone capable of demanding Sherlock change his behavior. John would yell at him and order him and there would be no question that he would be obeyed. Molly is not able to put the same command in her tone.

"When you become parents, don't name any of them Sherlock. I was teased." He says as if he barely heard her, yet he is throwing children into the mixture as if he's fixed her tiny little problem.

Molly is shaking in fear and anger, choking on the sorrow of knowing she has hurt him and now he's going off to God-knows-where to give her a silly dream. She does know what he's offering her. She also knows she could never live with the price.

"But I will never know, will I? If you just leave with no intention of coming back, I will have no idea. Please, don't do this. I have never asked anything of you, but don't do this. I can't. I can't have…" She is using her last resort, he does owe her. Her mind is spinning, determined to say anything to keep him here, but her grip on manipulation is not strong enough. She is strong with John, why is she so weak with Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Yes, that would…I do see. Watch Paris. Trust me, you will know. There will be a terrible scandal in Switzerland and the next day, Paris will burn. You won't mistake it, now that you know to look for it. I'm trusting you. Mycroft doesn't know and he must not. Do you understand?" his eyes lock back to hers.

Molly nods. "John could help you. You don't have to do this alone. Take him with you. What if I tell him? I could tell him the whole thing. He is all ready to go. He's been waiting, for you. He's all packed, just needing you to say you want him." She doesn't meet his eyes as she makes her covert threat. She hides it in temptation, but it is a threat.

"Would you really end his life so foolishly? Would you throw him away for nothing? Because that's all it would be." He turns his head and smirks as if he already knows her answer. "I think not. His blood would be on your hands alone. I don't think a bitter death is what you want for him, or do I mistake the sentiment behind that exquisite little stone on your finger?"

Molly looked down at the ring and Sherlock swept her hand into his. He bent very slowly and kissed the ring with reverence.

"Don't be fooled by its size. It is not a modest bauble. He spent a bomb on this unassuming perfect stone. He could have bought you something more ostentatious and pretentious for the same amount of money. But he chose this. A truly perfect diamond is almost priceless and I can assure you, the heart that gave it, actually is. You are, above all, practical. You won't tell him any more than you would throw this in the Thames."

"You're going to get yourself killed. This has all been for nothing. All his pain with no happy ending?"

He winked at her. "You and John take care of the happy endings, and I will take care of the tragic hero role." He turns quickly and even though it is too hot for his old Belstaff, and he is dressed in the sloppy style of an east London hipster, his actions couldn't be more theatrical if he were in a swirly vampire's cloak. He pushes the lift button and the bell dings at once. As the doors close, he says loudly, almost a little desperately, "Just so you know, you're the only one he's ever dated who I think is worthy of him."

"Sherlock. Please?" She runs toward the doors.

Molly stands in the hallway, still in her robe looking at the closed doors. She can't breathe and has no idea what to do next.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly stands in the hallway, wanting to go after him, but knowing that by the time she changed out of her robe, he would probably be gone. She didn't have the skills to follow him if he didn't want her too. She considers calling John, but what could she say? 'Hello, Sherlock is alive and he's going to be dead if we don't do something,' didn't sound like a very smart plan.

She would have to trust him, and hope he didn't stay gone. She whispers this comfort to herself, but her heart feels the flood of despair at her own attempt to read the situation with glasses of rose tinted optimism. If she told John, there would be no predicting his reaction. She thought of going to Mycroft and hoping he could somehow make Sherlock listen. He would never listen to Mycroft. If only he could talk to John. Sherlock would listen to him. Every possible solution had a matching problem until it swirled in her mind like garish horses at a carousel with knights unarmed.

She thought carefully in the shower. She reclines on her bed for a while, hoping for sleep or inspiration to rescue her from her throbbing head. She drifts on waves of hopelessness, terror and wishes. In her bed that still smells of John, looking at her ring, the conversation with Sherlock won't stop. It accosts her again and again.

She knows the easy path will be to follow his instructions, but she also knows it isn't the right path. Sherlock is _wrong_. John would not want this. Sherlock has no right to dictate everyone else's life. It had been a lovely time alone with only the sun and the sea and the wind to share John with, but he doesn't belong to her and he never could, so long as they are built on lies.

She gives up and rises from the bed, admitting she will be unable to fall asleep in this state of mind. She is too restless to sleep and she wants to be near John. Maybe she could get his advice without giving away what she needs to know. It is late but she decides to go to John's anyway. He won't mind her showing up. She dresses and is just exiting the lift when her landlady catches hold of her and beams. "Let us have a look then, love?"

Molly drew a blank, then with relief, she holds out her hand. "Oh, bless my soul, it's just right. Not too posh and not too miserly. The work of a quality bloke. I never would'a let him in, mind, cept I goh'a fine eye for quality. Don't you worry about that lit'le limp eiv'ver. That one is pure buh'on tuck leather, not a dodgy no-name overstuffed recliner. You hold on to that one, he's not brand new, but he's still got lots of comfortable sit left on him." Mrs. Brewerton had worked for forty-five years in a furniture store and she had single-handedly found all the beautiful floral designer furniture in Molly's flat.

"I believe he does indeed, Mrs. B." she said unable to stop her fondness for this older woman from lighting up her face.

Molly had honestly thought the sofa was hideous, but Mrs. Brewerton insisted that it was tasteful and sturdy as a brick. She had been correct and even if it reminded Molly of something that belonged in the flat of some elderly woman who served tea and gossip with lace doilies, it is still in perfect shape all these years later.

"I bet you'll 'ave a bit of padding sewn back on 'im in no time at all. Bit on the stringy side to my taste, but most men 'aven't the sense to eat a proper meal without a nice lit'le missus to get them sorted out. I will share my recipe book, came from Bertie's Mum, rest their souls. Can't find proper recipes these days, no 'ow, all this bloody microwave, bed-sit nonsense and 'orrid foreign take-away. I think we should start straight away, just get you in the 'abit of setting a nice table and making 'im feel like the world will come to a full-stop if he misses a good 'ome cooked —"

"That sounds delightful, and so very kind of you. I don't mean to be rude, but I've been called into work and it is sort of an emergency," Molly interjected when Mrs. Brewerton finally took a breath.

"Oh, that explains, you all showered and dressed at this dreadful 'our. Didn't think you would be starting out for a date. But, you never know these days. You will 'ave to set your foot down once you are wed, though, no proper wife could keep your hours…not with a good man sitting at 'ome waiting."

"I don't think it will be a problem. He's a doctor too, so we both have some strange hours. It isn't a nine to five profession, though I would appreciate it if everyone did decide to die at a decent hour."

Mrs. Brewerton looked appalled.

"Oh, not that I want anyone to, of course, I mean, I have to work when the work presents itself and not always at the times I would pick. That's all." She smiles uncomfortably and promises to contact her soon so that they could begin cooking lessons.

Molly would not have been terribly enthused about sequestering herself in her landlady's flat for countless evenings, but she had eaten Mrs. Brewerton's holiday dinners for years and though Molly could fry just about anything to perfection, that was also where her culinary expertise ended.

Molly caught a cab to John's.

She knocks on the door and notices right away that John is both angry and agitated with worry. "It's gone. I have been through everything. It is just bloody _gone_. I called Lestrade but I know I will never see it again. Why that? Bloody, hell, I will never forgive myself…"

Molly steps in the door, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, what is gone?"

"The violin. His bloody violin. Molly. Oh, God. They took his…violin." John squats down, taking a seat on the stairs to wait for Lestrade, and drops his head to his knees, his hands rake through his hair as if he is losing his mind. "I will never find it. I didn't keep it safe. I should have kept it safe. I should have kept him…safe." John is mourning the violin like Sherlock has died all over again.

Molly looks around the flat quickly while still on the landing. They didn't take the computer or the telly. She peeks through the kitchen door and sees Sherlock's microscope sits out on the counter exactly where he probably left it. "Did they take anything else? Have you checked his room?"

John looks up at her as if she has just poured salt on a whipped puppy's behind. "God, no. I didn't even think…" John stands and stumbles in his rush through the kitchen doorway toward Sherlock's room. He opens the door and disappears inside. "Bloody hell."

"What is it?" she asks while hurrying through the kitchen.

"They made a tip of it. I think they took some of his clothes." He says trying to right things and suddenly he gets a strange look on his face and rushes out of the room, bumping her enough that she has to sidestep to keep her balance.

When Molly follows, she finds John clutching the mantle and sobbing quietly.

She puts her arms around him and doesn't say a word. They stand like this for a few minutes and she can feel the shudders of pain ripping him apart. He takes several deep breaths and sniffs. He grows still, yet he's still tense with pure anger. Finally, John says, "What kind of person would want that? Who steals a God-damned skull? Who does that?"

"This happened while we were on holiday?" she asked.

"What? No. Went round the corner to grab a bite and needed bread and a few things, came back." Suddenly, he registered fully that Molly was there. "What are you doing here? Everything alright?"

"I…um. Missed you," she tried to sound cheery about that at least.

John nods and a lopsided smile appears like this pleases him. Maybe he is glad she showed up, but his attention is quickly locked back on the break in and his smile vanishes, replaced with a lost look of anger without a place to rage, "I just don't understand how anyone could want a skull. It won't bring much, if they can sell it at all. I mean, Mrs. Hudson heard nothing. I was gone an hour, at most. Other than the violin, the rest of it was just my sentimental rubbish. Who would break in here, leave things of value and haul off an armload of rubbish?"

Molly can think of _one_ person who might. She makes tea and he accepts it. She watches him. He waffles among anger, barely controlled tears and going blank.

John digs around in the sitting room. He notices some small thing gone from time to time setting off a string of curses. He has checked his own room as well only to find it untouched. He sits in his chair finally in exhaustion; his finger settles to his mouth and she can see his mind plotting revenge.

Lestrade comes by and fills out a report, promising to turn it over to the proper channels. John is derisive about any hope that it will have priority. Greg takes his attitude patiently without offence. Years of being around Sherlock made people immune to irrational and accusatory tones.

'Prop'ably kids. Fink they will make a killin' on Ebay or such. Sell it to his bloody fans. " Lestrade says carefully looking to Molly for a clue what he can say.

"Yeah. I see some tosser wearing that coat, and I swear he'll wish he'd never heard the name. Vultures, whoever did this, and anyone who buys so much as a pair of his socks. Vultures. Not one person in this city believed in him, for months... and now they want to have…pieces of him. It's sick."

Lestrade grimaces, but lets the comment go. He had believed enough to clear Sherlock's name. He had arrested him, but had given them both fair warning that he'd been ordered to take Sherlock in for formal questioning. They could have run before he got there. But, sneaking off quietly wasn't dramatic enough. Had to chin his boss first and then run off as Sherlock's hostage, the mad bugger. "Worlds full of 'em. You have any idea what I should put the value to be?"

" I will have Mycroft send a valuation for the violin. Knowing him, it's worth a million pounds and not insured," John says exhausted and rubbing his eyes as if it _is_ all his fault.

"Just for safety's sake, I am leavin' the skull off. You know who it ..I mean where he got that item? Saw it, but it never occurred to me to ask." Greg looks down, embarrassed.

John's eyes move unconsciously to the spot it had always occupied. "No idea. I don't have a clue. I was a bit afraid to ask considering what turned up in our refrigerator,"John says with a fond smile.

Lestrade rolls his eyes and they both laugh. "How about you, Miss Hooper? You were sort of his supplier for things along that line. Do you know?"

Molly giggled, "Well, I tended to supply him things that were a bit…"

"Fresher?" John interposes with a twinkle in his eye.

"Scarier and malodorous? God I thought Sally was going to have a seizure when we got back to the car that night she found eyeballs in the microwave. She couldn't talk fast enough about the violations in this flat." Lestrade jumps in and reminisces.

John grins and for a moment, the tension is gone and they are all remembering better times. "That was the very night I decided to move in. Skull, riding crop in the mortuary, left behind, kidnapped by Mycroft and offered money to spy on this guy I have almost decided is a nutter, and the icing on the cake was we just got back from impersonating you, with a badge he nicked because he said he was annoyed with you, and here you were, in the flat, ransacking it with Anderson. Mrs. Hudson was in a tither and on that basis, I decided to move right in. Should have run screaming."

Lestrade shakes his head and looks at Molly, "And you're dating this idiot? Should have both your heads examined."

"Oh, I will do you one better," John leans forward and winks at Molly. "We. Are engaged."

Lestrade opens his mouth in shock, and then hits John on the back in delight. "That is fantastic. Wow, I am happy for you both then. Set a date?"

Molly shyly informs him, "Oh, not for a while. He just asked me this morning. We are taking things slowly." She extends her hand for him to admire her ring and blushes at the reaction.

"John, you clever tosser. That is absolutely lovely." He looks a little absent and wears a soft melancholy smile as he addresses Molly, "Well, I think that's the smart thing. Got all the time in the world to make sure. Wish I'd been so smart. Best of luck and all that. You have told Mrs. Hudson?" Greg says standing to leave.

"No getting around it. She helped me pick it," John admits.

"Well, you should be out celebrating or in celebrating, and I should be off. Far as the skull goes, it's probably best it not be mentioned. Hate to find out there were the remains of a missing person here all this time. How'd that look for bollocks?" Greg laughs a bit ghoulishly at the idea.

Greg lets himself out and promises to see them Sunday.

John says no more, his attention locked to the empty places in the room. All of the cheer seems to have leached away with Greg. They settle in on the sofa, but other than refilling tea and television comments, Molly might as well not be there.

John retreats deep into thought. His eyebrows crease and he fidgets but she can see he isn't going to be much for conversation. By midnight, Molly can see he is getting worse in his moody restless anger, not better. She has to do it, and the longer she waits the harder it will be. She tries to think of some way to bring it up, without it being a row.

She sighs deeply and leans forward, toward John. Her hand reaches out and settles on his knee. "I need to speak with you. But not here," she whispers, looking around the room knowing Mycroft or his cronies were probably making transcripts of all they say.

John looks at her and he clears his throat and shakes his head. "Not tonight, ok? Look, I know what it has to be about and I can't take any more bad news tonight and if it is good news, I don't want to associate it with…this. Sorry I blurted it all out to Greg, right in the middle of all that. " He waves toward the mantle and looks away.

Molly squeezes his knee. "Oh. No. It isn't about that. Look, I may know who," she whispers then looks around the room poignantly.

He blinks several times then studies her. She sees it dawn on him that she wants to talk privately. "Walk?"

They head toward Regent's Park and walk the outer circle. Near York Bridge they stop and sit on a bench hidden in the shadows. Molly twiddles her hair, but can't figure out how to begin.

"I assume you think this is Mycroft, who took it all, do you? Is there a reason he would break into my flat and steal things he could have asked for?"

"Ok, you are about to be really, really cross with me," Molly began tentatively, "but… You have to promise that you will hear it all before you get angry."

He grins at her like any indulgent boyfriend would do, hoping she hasn't cheated or decided to break it off. "Ok? What could you possibly tell me that would make me more angry than the missing violin? Are you handing me my P45, Molly?" he smiles at her as if to say she's worried about nothing.

"No, it isn't about us, not exactly. I am trying to figure out how to tell you, that I know who took it and so do you, if you think about it." She glances at him and grabs his hand for strength.

"So, Mycroft?"

"Close."

"I have no idea what you mean. The Queen doesn't need Sherlock's violin and that's the only person I know for certain that Mycroft is acquainted with other than you. I did take your name off the list of possible criminal skull thieves."

She takes a deep breath. "What did they take that belongs to _you_?"

"It _all_ belongs to me…now."

Molly leans forward, "List the things that were taken, in your mind. What do they have in common? Who would desire those specific items?" she asks very slowly.

He shakes his head in that blank way people do when you tell them they have cancer or any news that goes against everything they expect. "No. If I had any idea, I would probably be shooting him or her right now. That wasn't just a violin to me. It was his. He loved that damned thing more than he ever did any … human being… Oh, Jesus." He bends forward, voice losing its calm and sounding a bit queasy. "Molly? I need you to spit it out, because I am thinking you're trying to say he's alive and every time I get my hopes up like that…so stupid… but I am just now getting to be …rational, and then it will be something else and…"

"John. Get your hopes up." She searches his face to gauge the impact of her words before saying more. Nothing she will ever say, not the nonsense said after love-making or the things they said on the island will ever matter as much as the words she will say in the next few seconds.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

His face blanks as if the brain is on overload, then he blinks rapidly. He smiles in joy and it flickers out. He smiles again and he shakes his head as if he's hearing things. Finally his hand begins to tremble and his eyes close as he takes several deep breaths and evenly forces words to form. "What are you trying to say? You did his post-mortem. I saw the photos of his organs. There isn't much chance of surviving those procedures."

She squeezes his hand tight. Her words are slow and her voice is measured "No. I faked his post-mortem. Everyone had to believe it, but I had to agree to help for it to work. He never died. He would have, but we found a way to…keep him safe."

"Sherlock, is alive? It can't…I saw him die. He was dead. I don't understand why you are saying this. It can't be. Oh, god, is he safe? When can I see him? That was over a year ago, how do you know he's still safe?" John fires questions faster than she has any hope of answering.

"You need to calm down so I can answer."

He is hyperventilating and tremors are running through him. "Yes," he spurts nodding. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, holding it for a count of ten. He repeats it while she speaks.

It all bubbles out of Molly, all the things she has wanted to tell him so badly, just tumble from her lips in a random spew of information. "He was there today. In my flat. Hiding and watching, like his brother, and then he left and it was horrible and I think he's going to do something stupid and I can't…I can't do this for another second. He did it to keep you alive and he was always going to come home as soon as he could. Then today he told me…goodbye and lots of things about taking care of you and I begged him to tell you and he said if I told you and you die, then it is all my fault. But if I _don't_ tell you and_ he_ dies, for real this time, then I will always know that _that_ was my fault too, so the only way I can figure out to keep you both alive is to…"

John stands up and paces about halfway through her rambling. He has swiftly burned through relief and is rapidly hitting anger. He rubs the bridge of his nose and his voice is an octave too low as he tries to keep from exploding. "Where is he? You will take me to him right this bloody minute. Because no. No. The woman I love would not _do_ this to me. So either _you_ have lied to me all this time and you are not her…or you are lying _now_ and still… are not anyone who could give a dammed about me. So, tell him to come out where I can fucking see him, or take it back."

"Please, lower your voice before someone shoots you in the head or Mycroft hears you. He knows too. I have _begged_ them to tell you." Molly stands, reaching out to him as if to offer comfort. He holds up his hands to warn her away and she sits back down on the bench.

John looks up at the sky for a moment in silence then shoves his hands in his pockets. He turns to her and in a casual, conversational, bland tone says, "What did they say? Did either of them have the remotest clue that I was _this_ close to blowing my head …did they really just let…"

"They…they sent me," she says gently, "and it helped, or it seemed to do, then it changed and…"

He wraps his arms around his head and leans back as if in agony."Oh, God. And I lost my fucking mind, thinking any of you were …" His arms drop and he gestures toward her, palm of his right hand waving in fury. "You let me bury him. You watched me fall in that hole in the ground with him and kindly tossed the soil on top of me, knowing I was as dead inside as any of your refrigerated clients. You all stood by every day and pretended to be sad and pretended to understand. Pretended you cared and were only trying to help. You were, in reality, just waiting to see if I could carry on, like a shell without a soul."

Molly is shaking her head and repeating 'no' to every statement but he isn't hearing a thing. He is beyond all reason and his logic has gone round the twist. She stops speaking and hopes he will wind down soon and let her explain in such a way that it doesn't include him ending in the basement of Bart's or in a padded room for the rest of his life.

"I am an experiment. To the three of you. How long can the walking dead keep breathing? How long will it take for poor John to catch up to our brilliant game and figure out he's putrid and stinking up the lives of everyone? I survived torture and war and fought with everything I had to live with that last bullet only to be sent home with nothing to have survived for, nothing left of the man I was. Except, I found him, and he picked me, as his friend, above all others. It was my job to protect him, even if it never went any farther than friendship. It was all fine. Until I failed. Even if he never could care, the way I did, how could he let me think I failed him? By all means, trick them, lie to the enemy. Of course, find a way to not die."

"It wasn't planned to hurt you. We didn't even know if it would work!" Molly tries again to speak over him, make him stop saying such horrid things.

His eyes dart sideways and a one-sided grin appears for a second as if he's looking for someone to share his humor. His lips clamp tightly between his teeth as he shakes his head. His voice goes back to a calm hard monotone as if he needs to explain the rules of life to her. "But you don't leave men behind. You don't leave them alive and wounded. You rescue them or if you know you can't you look them in the eye, you hear their last words and you do what you have to do. It is the kinder thing in the end. The right thing. One of you should have had the heart to tell me, one of you should have had a moments pity. Dear God in heaven that has got to be," John stops speaking and begins to laugh, but it is dark with self-hatred, "the best piss ever taken. I can't imagine anything…_any_thing more cruel. Am I so worthless, not a one of you willing to put me out of my misery? I wish I had died in that damned desert. I wish I had never met any of you. "

"John, no…don't say things like that," she protests.

There are tears in his eyes now, he points at her and shakes his head. "No. Don't even speak to me. You and Mycroft…and him. Laughing at me while I slowly lost my mind. Watching me die minute by minute. Jea..sus! I've been the enter_tain_ment…Oh look…he's going to make such a mess for Mrs. Hudson. His brains don't match the sofa. Now she will _have_ to replace the wallpaper."

She reaches up and twines her hair around her fingers. It is a terrible habit, left over from childhood, but right this minute she can't help it. She has to head his anger off. She tries to sound firm and determined with him, hoping her dry throat will make proper sounds. "John, it isn't_ like_ that. It just kept dragging out and now it is just …no matter what I do, there is no way to ever make it right, but I couldn't stand there and see it all come back because he took that damned violin. And he needs you and if I can't get you to see it, then it was all for nothing. He_ needs_ you. I don't know what he's planning, he wouldn't say, and I'm so afraid."

"Well. I don't think I give a damned." He bends toward her at the waist, defiance and dark humor in his wide legged stance and tilted head.

"Yes, you do." Molly meant for it to sound more certain than it did. The truth is, she wouldn't entirely blame him if he didn't.

He makes a reproachful noise in the back of his throat. He returns his stance to rigidly straight, folding his hands behind him and he emulates calm authority again. His head bows slightly and he looks like a fierce warrior about to address his troops for committing heinous war crimes. "Why should I? He doesn't trust _me_…he trusted _you_. You, _not_ me. And the man who betrayed him to Moriarty. Mycroft sold Jim the artillery. I made a mistake, but I never betrayed him. Never. He hid from me. He spoke to you. And broke in the flat rather than just…boy, I have had people blow me off before, but this is a whole new kind of dismissal."

"It wasn't meant that way at all. Please I need you to stop being so cross and listen." She pats the space next to her, indicating she would like him to sit next to her.

He blows air through his nose as a no, then he looks up above her head and his eyes follow the traffic. He is speaking but not really to her. "God, this changes…everything. _Every_thing. He left me on purpose and he didn't give a damned. I don't know who _any_ of you are. He's not…not even my friend. I imagined it all, is what it amounts to. I mean nothing to him. He doesn't have friends, does he? Just one, my arse. And you. It was all fake. All of it." His voice sounds airy and toneless as if his heart has shattered and his life is destroyed.

Molly speaks quickly and earnestly, fearing he's going to leave before she makes him understand, "I know I'm giving up everything wonderful and everything with you to tell you. He will hate me for telling you. You do already and I don't blame you one bit. I don't… Mycroft will probably send his hit squad and I don't even care if he does. I don't_ care_ if you hate me…_or_ if he does. But I don't know what is right or wrong anymore. I have been so sure that it was almost over, but it just keeps going on. I don't know if I am doing the right thing here. I only know what is wrong. And him fighting all this alone, while you slowly chew yourself alive is wrong."

"Fat lot of good that does me. You taking a year to decide that this was wrong." His right hand goes to his face and he touches his lips. He smiles and shakes his head as if he thinks the world has gone mad. He licks his lips before speaking. "For future reference. This was wrong. It was wrong in every way. I just want to tell anyone listening that you can all kiss my…arse. There is no grey area here. Keeping me off to the side and letting me fall apart, was wrong!" The last two words are said with gritted teeth.

"Yes. It was. You have to listen to me. Because it's important and it's true. He loves you so much and so do I. He only did it to keep you safe. Jim had the snipers. I told you. It was all real, all of it, except he managed to live, too. And all for you, even though this has broken him to be without you. I know you think this has all been against you, but it never was, never. He's been out there, alone all this time, doing probably horrible things to—"

"To prove he's smarter than all the rest of us," John interrupted her curtly. "Not _about_ me. Not _for_ me, either. If he knew anything about me or cared even_ this_ much," John says with bitterness and holds his fingers up. "And you. I loved you. I really did. God, I'm so stupid. Stupid. And I thought we were something special, something real. You slept with me. I know exactly how Mycroft works, you know. You and he having your little meetings. You on the Holmes' payroll, Molly? I hope you were paid by the shag. More profitable. Bit of a pervert here. Always thinking with the wrong equipment. Or were you taking one for team Sherlock? But it went too far today, well technically yesterday." His eyes are hard, hateful and watching her every reaction with great intensity.

Molly can't stop the way her eyes keep filling, but she won't break down at his words. They hurt, but they are the words of a wounded animal unable to see friend from foe. "Say whatever you have to, John. I know what you must think of me. I only did that because I wanted to, because I really did fall in love with you… no matter how hard I tried…I couldn't help it…" She stops speaking, and watches the ring bend the streetlight into brilliance.

John laughs at her and it feels like he's kicking her in the chest with every heartbeat. "Then why tell me now? You have a ring on your finger!" he said accusingly. "The fact you have lied to me from day one finally sink into your conscious a bit?"

Molly grips the bench as she answers, because all she wants to do is run away and cry. That's what she would have done in the past. She would have kept her head down until she arrived back home, but she would have gained nothing but a headache for her efforts. This time she doesn't have the luxury to run and hide. She has to face that whatever happens, happens. She has made her choices and she may have messed up or may be messing up right now, but she'd taken every step with the best intentions.

She speaks calmly, hoping if she explains carefully, he will hear something besides the fact that he has been cheated. They all cheated him out of a year of his life. He has wasted it in grief that never had to be, but she must keep it in her head that if she had not agreed, Sherlock would actually be dead right this minute. "He's in danger. You are in danger. I don't think that can possibly work out in any way that you are both alive if you are in the dark and he goes off on some suicide mission without you."

"It was evidently fine up until now. Carry on. You guys enjoy your James Bond lifestyles. None of you ever noticed me. Tell the British government, and his ghostly brother, there is always something they miss. Hope you're all very happy." He turns and starts to walk away.

She calls out to him,"Wait. Please. Don't you see? I can't _live_ with it any more. I promised to help him. I promised to be yours and even though I know it will never mean anything to you again, it meant everything to me. You both do. Everything. I am terrified to lose you but I am more terrified of you losing each other. Forever."

He takes a few more steps then stops and spins, his expression scrunches into a comical squint of confusion."That doesn't even make sense."

"If you help him, then the two of you can forgive each other and that's all that really matters. I don't care about me. I'll understand. Anything you want but just…help me find a way to help him? If you really want him to die, then leave this mess for me to sort out. He won't listen to me, or Mycroft. I can't make him come here. I know he won't. He won't be happy I told you, but I did hope you'd at least listen."

John stands silently for so long Molly wants to crawl out of her skin. She waited for him to work out what she had said.

John comes over to the bench. He debates with himself silently for a moment then takes his seat. "Why not. Not much to lose." His body posture is stiff and he takes a deep slow breath and holds it for over a minute then blows it out his pursed lips.

Molly blushes, remembering much happier times in which she's watched him do this in order to remain in control when he is near letting go and wanting to build his desire by forcing his body to step back from the cliff's edge of pleasure. Her face relaxes as her mind recalls their last moments tumbling and giggling in her flat. She wishes she'd thought to tell him that it might be the last time before she suggested this walk. She still wonders just exactly what he considered above what they had already done with each other. "Please don't hate me, John. Even if I deserve it," she says without intending to have it escape her thoughts.

"I don't hate you." John said slowly with restraint. "I want to see him. At least once more. I am very angry to have been treated like such a tit all this time. But, you saved his life. I need to see him. If he'd jumped without you, he would be dead or something worse. You're right. I knew it was him. I could smell him when I walked in. I told myself it was just because they took his things. I could smell the soap and his sweat when he's on a case. His scent always changed and it always affected me. Something in me knew, it was more than chemicals stirred up by strangers. I wasn't smelling strangers. It just would not make the leap into something that could be real. I need to speak with him. More than I have ever needed anything. Please just, let me...see him."

"I don't know where he is. If I did I would be there now."

He goes on as if he hasn't heard her. "You had convinced me when nothing else could. The thing that convinced me was that _we_ were together. I knew that if there was any chance, you would never…and damned sure not with me. So I walked in from our holiday so happy, for the first time since…then. I go out, for just a bit, and this piece of him, like a last bit of his actual life, his soul, was now gone too. It just felt like, all of a sudden, he was so for all time gone, but had only left a moment ago, his soap and his shampoo was all around me, and it was going to kill me this time. He's come before, hasn't he? Thinking stupid John wouldn't notice, never caring if I did. But you saved him. I would have died happily to do that. All these months and it crossed my mind every day, but for the last few. It was getting better. But, tonight when I got home from shopping, I was falling again. God, I want this over. He wins. You all do. One conversation. All I'm selfishly asking of anyone, ever again."

"I'm so…so sorry," she says, and reaches out for him and rests her hand on his thigh. She needs to connect with him and she turns toward him a little.

He looked at her and put his arm around her. He picks up her left hand and twirls the ring around her finger, he chuckles, and she watches him as his warm fingers manipulate the stone around and around. "I know. I could sit here and tell you all the bad things going on in my head and you kind of deserve them. But mostly, all I feel is like this lead suit has fallen away and maybe I won't drown if I can just get a breath of air. So, right now, you did some pretty evil and illegal shit to keep him alive and I sort of understand. I killed a man to save him about six hours after I first looked at the flat, did you know that? I didn't know a thing about him. He left me at a crime scene, he got me kidnapped, then made me aware that moving in with him could lead to drug busts. He took off again leaving me to deal with the police and then I shot a man and we laughed about it. I am not absolving you here, but at the same time, I can see where you got in a lot farther than you meant to and by the time you got here, you have lost some part of yourself." He drops her hand and stretches as if there is a crick in his back. His hand stays poised there for a moment then he pulls her too him with a friendly double squeeze.

Molly nodded, relaxing into his embrace and she's relieved that he is beginning to understand. "Something like that, yes."

"Take me to him, Molly," John's voice is mild, but she knows it is an order. His grip on her suddenly becomes less about comfort and takes on the feel of control or command.

"I don't know how to find him. I can only-"

"I need to see him, Molly. It isn't too much to ask. I will forgive you all of it and never bother you about it again, if you do this one thing for me. I will see him. I deserve that much at least. You must know something. Let's do this the easy way, shall we?"

"I can't just call a cab and give them an address. I don't know…" her eyes widen and she stops talking and closes her eyes.

John holds his gun under her chin."Don't do that. You will take me to him or I will shoot you right here. I have a lot of really bad things going through my head right now so please don't test my ability to understand right from wrong. In my previous job, my orders were not questioned. I am not used to repeating them. I don't want to _hurt_ you. If he's watching us now, just signal him or whatever you need to do."

"John. Stop. You won't shoot me…" Molly's voice sounds a lot more sure than she feels.

"I brought this so I would be able to protect you from all the bad men in London. Funny how one thing leads to another, isn't it?" His eyes glow and every light of the night seem to gather in them.

**Anger and jealousy's all that he sells us**

**He's content when you're under his thumb**

**Madmen oppose him, but your kindness throws him**

**To survive it you play deaf and dumb**

_**-Bob Dylan - No Time to Think**_

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_Ok, two long chapters, together. Yes it is, not looking very warm and fluffy, Please review, because there is a bit of a storm building and You are soon going to be too cross with me to review for a while...but John and Molly and Mycroft and even Sherlock are counting on you to keep me inspired. Thank you all for your lovely reviews and follows. Check out - I Think the Cat is on Fire - if you need a bit of cheer to go along with all this anti-fluff._

_Most of all, thank you to my wonderful editor, who has so kindly offered her time and red ink, to make sure I am on the road to improving my style, grammar and British syntax. Hopefully, I haven't mucked up her advice too dreadfully. _


	23. Chapter 23

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.  
**Summary**:_ Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**This chapter is very long, but it is the end of book one and I didn't wish to split it. Thank you for reading and reviewing. This story is now considered finished. Book two will be linked for your continued reading without having to search. Some people will only read stories once they are done and I understand that frustration. Book two will continue the story at this URL. I know that isn't the way everyone does it, but if you have read this far, I imagine that is not going to surprise you much. **

* * *

Molly sat on the dark bench, under a tree as the man next to her held her life in the balance of his sanity. Life around her moved along oblivious to her danger. Cabs and people rushing home from dates, pubs and late shifts, didn't notice the lovers in the shadows behind the hedges. They were nothing unusual, except for the cold oiled metal settled under her chin.

"I don't _know_ where he is. He could be on his way to Paris or Switzerland. He could be at Mycroft's or anywhere. You don't need the gun. I didn't have to tell you anything, John. Why would I tell you all of this and hold back anything that could help us. God, this is so stupid." Molly is trembling but in anger more than fear. This is not her fault and she's the one having to smooth it all over. "Could you please turn Mr. Hyde off now and put that away?"

"You contact him somehow. Tell me!"

"Yes. He prefers to text. There is no cache storage on texts." She ventures a glance at him, but his eyes frighten her and she quickly looks away.

"Then text him. Get him here, now!" his teeth are gritted and she can tell he's reaching the end of a small amount of patience. His voice is low except for the slight buzz his clenched jaw creates.

"I can text him. But it doesn't mean he will come. I have no way of making him come here," she practically moaned in dejection. "He said, he wasn't coming back."

"Molly, please. Don't play with me. I don't want this. But, I will _see_ him. Tonight. I will. Do? You understand?"

She would give anything not to have to argue with him right now, but she is a little terrified that Sherlock meant he would no longer speak to her at all. Her phone has been silent since he left. "John, I am trying to tell you—"

"Here, is where you need to understand, we are. I could just lose my mind, any second." He clicks his tongue twice and tilts his head like a pendulum. Then his eyes lock back on her face, too close and too intense for the reasonable voice in her ear. "I didn't have to. You could have stopped this from getting to this point. You lied. To get us to this place, all of you lied. This is what you wanted. You and I, we were going to be honest. Remember? The things I told you, were private, Molly. I really loved you. God, you're a cool little liar. Almost as good as him. Can't or won't? Whatever you promised him. Doesn't matter, with this gun in my hand. So don't play me like you could play with the man I was an hour ago. That guy you knew then, is gone. I will never trust a soul on this planet again. Why would I believe you can't find him now? Now, I want to see him and that is all I am asking for. Tell me where he is."

"If what I did was so wrong, then shoot. If you want him to die, just shoot me. You aren't the only one who has been miserable. Just dead? That looks pretty tame compared to destroying everyone's trust to keep him alive and living every day terrified this would be the day he bled to death in some horrid place and I would never ever know what happened or where he was. Every cadaver I have ever seen has had his face in my imagination. Because I knew any of them could be him. I had to prepare myself every day, to go to work. If he died here, in London, and his name was William Smith or Fredrick Graham, I wouldn't know until I unzipped the bag. Some days, when we were busy, my heart stopped and I prayed every single time I had to check someone in. If you want my help, put that away before someone sees you." Molly hasn't looked at him the whole time she spoke. Her eyes are fixed on a streetlight. It is probably from Regent's College, School of Psychotherapy and Counseling, and it is the only thing that she is holding onto. She has dared him to shoot her and if he does, a stupid streetlight from a place meant to help this sort of thing, will be the last thing she sees.

John lowers the gun, and slowly his grip on her relaxes, but he is still holding it. He wants to make sure she doesn't run away. "You still had hope. It was something you took from me. You could have told me."

Molly sighs. She turns her head toward him, and her eyes stream tears every time she blinks. "I wish it had been you. I wish it hadn't been me. But before you judge me, what would you have done? Wouldn't you have lied to me, to save him? We weren't even friends then, not really. I mean we knew each other, but he was the link. A few lies, or would you rather he be putrefying under that headstone right now? You said once that I knew the after effects and you were going to show me the process. I can give you a detailed description of what he would look like at this stage if he were in a sealed coffin for fourteen months. It is a very interesting description and even expensive ones sometimes leak, so that can add some details that even you might find offensive. No matter what you think of me, I don't regret that he's not doing those things. I would like to_ keep_ him not doing those things and I wanted to keep _you_ not doing those things. If you are going to shoot me, bloody well get it over with. If you don't want to help him, then kindly take your hands off me so I can go throw myself on Mycroft's mercy."

She thinks it has worked. She has shocked him and brought him back from that edge again. She breathes slowly and deeply, watching the shadows move in the park. The wind gusts from time to time but it is a lovely weeknight in London and the hot summer air is growing chill.

The rain is coming and the wind feels icy in the September night as if all the heat and warmth is leaching out of the city while they sit here on this bench. The day had been so warm and it feels like she let the last day of summer slip through her fingers. If they were on a busier section or it was a little earlier, there would still be pedestrians. It is odd they have been here for so long without a single lost tourist wandering by. Not even a drunk has stumbled near them.

The traffic on Outer Circle and York Bridge is light. The student housing behind them is dark. A placid waterway is just in front of them. It's a narrow branch from the boating lake that stretches out and narrows here. They had come here often during the summer. It is too black to see the water now, but she could smell it, green and earthy. Just over two roads on Marylebone, she can hear the chaos of city life. She feels far away and detached from it all as she waits here in the shadows with her latest foray into poor luck in love.

He sighs softly, shakes his head and seems to decide to chance taking his arm away from her. She smiles a little, thinking he must be raging through countless mental barriers right now, trying to find faith in something. It must feel like torture to discover everything you trust and most of what you believe is a lie. She glances at him.

John smoothly lowers his Browning and tucks it back in his waistband, fussing with it and making sure the outline is concealed, just so, in the small of his back. Molly shakes her head and sighs. She leans forward as if she's ill then wipes her face and sits back up, refusing to look at him.

"I will never understand how you could…not tell me." His voice is so sad and hollow. "Does he hate me? What did I do, that he could hate me that much?"

"He doesn't hate you. He loves you more than his own life. He came back to London, searching for us. He said he's made a terrible mistake. He said they would figure it out and he kissed me, goodbye. He was so hurt by the ring but I'm not sure he was unhappy. You may think he just faked his death, but you need to think of the big picture here. He still gave up his life, John. He's still breathing. But imagine if the world thought you were dead, and you weren't."

"Can't be worse than the world thinking you're alive, when you aren't." John looked around as if he might pop out of the bushes. He leans forward, elbows on knees and face buried in his hands.

Molly reaches out toward him, but her hand doesn't quite reach, she hesitates, then with a deep breath and a scoot forward she lays her hand on his shoulder. "He didn't know. He didn't know this would happen. You never actually dated each other. You told everyone you weren't gay. He had no idea it would get so bad. He sort of expected your girlfriends to, distract you."

" I didn't have any girlfriends to be distracted with. Probably something about that in Mycroft's report."

"Maybe one." She mentions dryly.

"Okay. If you say so. The Holmes best plan. Kind of a terrible one, in retrospect."

"Thank you. Very nice. You can be such a bloody git." She glares at him.

"Not new information, Molly."

"You always told everyone that you weren't gay. How could he have known?" She asks.

John sighs, "Well, I'm not."

She looks at him, "Then what are you. I always wondered, just didn't bother me enough to ask."

"I'm nothing. I love who I love. Doesn't need a label."

"Fine. So have you loved a man before?" She asks with a shrug.

His lips shoot out as he chews the inside of his cheek. "Loved, yes. Had sex with, not really."

"How does that work, the not really?"

"Is this what we are going to talk about? Right now?" He asks her incredulously.

"Sherlock seemed to be making you cross. What would you like to talk about?" she counters sarcastically.

" The thing is, when did he know that it was not a survivable situation for me? That it was so bad? Did you keep it from him? Did Mycroft lie to him and say I was turning Baker Street into the party spot of London? Has he known all along? And he was fine with letting me rot. One word, and this would have all been done."

"Really? One word you say? Like it is now? You are all better." She can't help but grin, but she does an impression of a hiccup trying to get her giggle under control.

"Well, now I'm not." He says belligerently, face not pleased at her response.

"So, when would it have been okay? An hour? When we were still hoping he wouldn't end up with some fatal impact damage we didn't anticipate?"

"I'm a doctor!"

"So am I," Molly says fiercely.

John sucks his breath in at how angry she got. "Yes. You are. But, who was the best option?"

"The one of us who wasn't concussed, I should imagine. He was nearly hysterical. Well for him…"

"Which means catatonic."

"Yes. He hadn't expected to have to use this. He thought he'd win. But he thought Jim was going to make a mistake. Mycroft confirmed snipers. There wasn't just one. They were all over. Tracking you like locusts. Baker Street was a pretty busy place, considering you practically did nothing. You had, Mycroft's guys tripping over Jim's guys and Sherlock's homeless people were watching out for you. Some of them helped too. They were protecting you as best they could, by keeping a low profile and watching you and who else might be following you. There were the reporters and they had seconds trying to bump into you and get a quick comment of any kind. There were looky-loos. Greg assigned people on the street to deal with crowd control and jump in should a riot start. You weren't even staying there, but _they_ all were."

"I'm sure Speedie's appreciated the extra traffic," John said with dead-pan charm, his reliable, off-beat sense of humor appearing with all its customary predictability.

"After the funeral? A few weeks? I called and called. Mycroft hounded Lestrade."

"Came himself. Mycroft was in my hotel room one morning. Like to have gotten himself shot. That would have made total pants of my special-class firearms certificate."

"So would shooting your fiancé in the head in the park," she scolds.

The doctor looks at his hands and then up at the streetlight. He began to speak twice but couldn't seem to figure out what to say. "We aren't in the park. Park's closed. I would not have shot you. I figured he'd come running to your rescue. Hoped he wouldn't show up guns blazing." He grins and speaks distinctly just in case he is near. "He's a terrible shot."

" Looks like the park to me. It's the foot-path. So. You going to help him?" she asks, hesitant but determined to keep talking until the answer is yes.

"He's not here. I haven't a clue how to find him. He's covered his trail for over a year. Take me months just to track him down. Doesn't sound like we have that kind of time. He won't come for me. He doesn't want my help. Facts seem to be getting in the way of me helping him." His voice is calm, but his head is bobbing around searching the darkness.

"What are you looking for?"

"Our tails seem to have dropped out of sight. Completely." He stands as if to stretch and uses the opportunity to look around. "They would not drop us. Not after getting a caning for losing us on our holiday adventure. I imagine Mycroft was livid. Hate to be in their job right now. They are bollocks in elusiveness. Been playing the innocent befuddled twat with them for more than a year now. Our holiday escape showed my hand, but it was probably blamed on their incompetence. They picked us up on the cab ride to your flat. Now they have backed off. They are either dead or its orders. Something's up."

"We have been here a little bit." Molly could use a trip to the facilities herself after all this.

"But all three? Two on me and one on you?" He is watching now with singular attention.

"Shift change? Breaks? He has a whole satellite, " she offers helpfully.

"Yes, Sherlock hacked it. Not exactly Google. Could be." He focuses skyward and moves three steps over, deeper in the shadows. " I was surprised he didn't find us faster. You said Sherlock made a mistake. And you said, you text him?" He shuffles through subjects with military precision.

Molly nods and reaches in her purse for her phone.

John watches her as if he expects her to run, or refuse. When she just sits there fiddling with her phone uncomfortably, he says, "Ask him if he took his violin."

[Did you take the violin?]

It is almost five minutes before her phone beeps. John spends most of it moving strangely, eyes searching, focus never returning directly to her face, edging around the tree and even stood on the bench for a moment to see over the hedges into the street. He's more alert and watchful than she's ever seen him.

She has noticed this quirk of his before, the way his eyes dart away from people as he speaks. She had always assumed it was a nervous habit, like the way she obsessively scrapes under her fingernails when she doesn't feel comfortable, but now she realizes it is more. John no longer wears the uniform, but he never stopped being a soldier any more than he stopped being a doctor just because he wasn't technically currently employed as one.

"Are London's bad men coming?" she asks, dropping into their silly relaxed banter and teasing him that she has caught on to his purpose.

"Hope they don't, because they will find that I am here. They better bring a lot of friends."

"What if they do? Is there a specific count to watch out for, just so I know if I should be afraid?"

He looks down at her, brow covered in wrinkles from his raised eyebrow. "Eight hand to hand, but I have thirteen rounds, so unless one happens to be over seven foot tall, I think we are safe at the moment."

Finally the phone's LED flashes that she has a text. "It's from him." She reads it out loud.

[It is mine.]

"Tell him that I am upset. Out of my mind with grief." He nods to her to do it.

[He's upset. He's out of his mind with worry. It's like he thinks he let you die all over again. Please let me tell him?]

"Nice." John says with a smile reading over her shoulder.

The reply is returned in moments.

[I told you if you did, it would get him killed. There is no discussion here. Work your magic. He won't care about its absence long. He doesn't even know how to play it.]

"Bastard. Tell him it is my sentimental attachment. Tell him…that you are afraid of me right now. A little truth can be a good thing." He flops down on the bench again, satisfied with whatever he saw or didn't see.

[I am afraid that only you can fix this. He is scaring me. Please come.]

[Then leave and no.]

Molly looked at John. He shook his head. "Ok? Tell him I have my gun, then don't answer him back."

[He has his gun. What should I do?]

[I assume you have your clothes on. Take them off. Distract him.]

Molly handed John the phone. He cursed. He looked around and handed it back to her.. "That didn't work. He's not expecting to hear from you now. He's going to think we're having a shag. I need to make him think it's life or death. Should have gone with a kidnapping or something. Damn him."

Molly grins and types rapidly. [That won't work. He took me on a walk. He has suddenly decided only you would steal the skull. That means I had to know. Mycroft's people have left us. I think he's crazy. It doesn't matter, he is crazy.]

[What is happening?]

Molly doesn't respond. John smiles as the next texts come in.

[Please answer.]

[Are you injured?]

[I don't have time for this. Answer me.]

[I am not actually worried, you know.]

[Not working. You're probably shagging.]

Molly grins at John, "Watch this."

[If I don't produce you in the next two hours, he is going to kill me and then himself. If he sees Mycroft's bunch or anyone from The Yard, he's says we will know much sooner if you are on the other side. Then he won't wait, so whatever you do, don't call people who will just make it end sooner. Maybe I can think of something. He wants you to come here. You have me located? He's hiding us from the satellite, but you have your nanny-cam I bet. If not, it means you are probably on a plane by now. I'm sorry if you are and if this is the happy ending to your hero. All my love forever, no matter what.] She hands John the phone. "Do you think that might work? Only hit send if you think it will work."

John reads it several times. He nods. "Molly, you are brilliant. I'm not going to shoot you. It was a bluff." He hits send.

She didn't mean to say anything but it popped out, "Second time. I don't think it was. You forgot the thirty-day rule."

John doesn't speak for a while. He seems very interested in the breeze stirring the new leaves. He chuckles and takes a deep breath. "You forgot the truth. He's actually alive, isn't he? I just sent him a text. Sherlock is alive."

She nods. "Evidently he is at the moment. Whether he's still in London or not, who knows. I'm so sorry, John."

"Yeah, me too. Not that he's alive, by the way. No matter what, I'm glad of it. I mean, you saved him and saved me, too. He put you up to what exactly?… asking me to dinner, at the least. Tell me about the rest of it? Don't have any need to lie to me anymore."

"Yes. The dinner. The clothes too, but I told him I wasn't going any farther than flirting. I was supposed to introduce you to some nurses from the hospital. I put him off on that, because I didn't want to give you up. Told him…it was because they couldn't handle you. I know you won't believe me and that none of it matters anymore. But the rest was just me." She shrugs and peeks at him, sucking her lips between her teeth and biting down.

"Why? You were very aware of how I felt about him. I don't understand you at all. Why did you let me keep going? I asked you to marry me and you said I would change my mind, but yes for now?" He doesn't sound angry now, but he does still sound lost.

"It doesn't matter. I just sort of wanted to pretend, because it was a nice thought. I really did fall in love with you. I really would say yes if we just met and it was normal. Even though I knew it would never matter, unless something horrible happened, and then I wouldn't be lying anymore and maybe it would keep me from having my heart broken forever. If I had someone to watch over and love, a way to keep doing what he asked of me, but so much more, then maybe it wouldn't kill me to have done so many horrible things for nothing."

Her phone beeped. [Give him your phone. John, this is between us, let Molly go.]

[You won't come if I do. I don't even matter to you.]

[This isn't who you are. This is wrong. Let me do what I must and just forget all of this. You were very happy a few hours ago. Don't throw that away on a stupid gesture. Marry her, be happy. Please, John.]

[You have no idea who I am now. Come find out. Or I will put your untouchable little museum piece in the ground]

"Who is in his grave? I have seen you there." He asks as he types.

Molly sighs and says, "Jim."

"That's just what I thought. So you and he, really were…"Johns eyes grow wide in horror but he doesn't look away from the phone.

"Hard to explain. He…he may have actually liked me, as a person. Like a friend. He was never mean to me. He asked me to bring him Daffodils, and I do. Nobody else does. I really was gentle with him, when he came to me. He was smiling, you know. He was happy to go. He had never been happy here." Molly speaks slowly as if speaking of a person John had never met.

John does a double take and gives a noncommittal shrug, "Okay, that's…good. Creepy as hell, but good. Settles my bathtub question on the relative dynamics of the mental health issues, between the two of us. You should get a trophy. Not just a little one, but huge… tastefully huge, maybe a plaque, bit of engraving."

Molly rolls her eyes. "Says the gold medalist for the Hyde event of mental health."

He laughs, "True, but I'm still an _amateur_. You, my dear, are in the pro-leagues."

John has been carrying on a conversation with Sherlock this whole time. She leans over to see what he's typing now.

"Pay no attention to what I type. He's a stubborn demanding dick, that's all. I am not going to do any of this," he explained to her in his calming matter-of-fact way.

[I think she will be happy being buried right on top of Jim, under your fucking lie of a name. To think I cried for Moriarty, thinking it was you, you bloody sod. You going to let her die? I won't make it easy on her.]

[What do you think this will accomplish? If you are this angry, why do you even want to see me?]

[I am coming with you, of course.]

[No. You are not.]

[There is only one way you get to choose that option. Donate my body to science, maybe you can nick my head for a few experiments. Of course, if you can't be bothered to stop me, you ought to let me know ahead of time so I will know to blow out my heart instead. Actually, that would be more a' propos.]

[I know you are angry, but this is not the answer. Stop this. For me.]

[For you? You don't get to ask me that ever again, Sherlock. Really? Just let you disappear? I will just hang out and drink tea, because you think I am such a worthless coward? I see. I like my plan better. You see, the option is to die by your side, where I want to be, or die here, tonight – alone, knowing you never cared, wanted to be shut of me, didn't trust me, didn't need me. I don't want to live another day knowing that.]

[You know none of that is true.]

[ I could join the other side instead – want to face off and play? It would be your chance to finish the poor bastard you spent a year torturing. I bet they could always use a crack shot, maybe I will apply for the job. Just for personal satisfaction, I don't need the money.]

[John, this isn't funny. I would let you win. How can you doubt me like this?]

[Prove it. Take me with you.]

[You love her. You are bluffing.]

[All over town there are posters. I believe in… I guess you think you believe in me too. Are you sure? You thought you knew me a year ago. You thought I wouldn't believe. Fifty-fifty chance. Here's my move. I have never lied to you. For you, a hundred times, but never to you. I love you. Whatever you decide, I needed to say that. If I never have the chance to say it to your face, then so be it, it's off my heart.]

There is no response.

John hands Molly the phone. "Doesn't sound much like he's coming, Molls." His voice is rasp and gravel.

The wind picks up a little and the sky clouds over, threatening and rumbling with cloud-to-cloud lightning. John kept his arm around Molly but it was just to help hold off the chill and reassure her that everything would be fine.

John sighs, looking at his watch. The deadline is fifteen minutes away. "When the deadline comes, Molly, I want you to take a cab home."

"What are you going to do?" she whispers, suddenly fearful again.

"I don't have a clue, but I don't want you here," he said looking straight ahead.

"That sounds pretty horrible. I could go with you."

His head swivels toward her as if she just said a Texan had just been appointed Prime Minister. "What? No. _Hell _no. Are you completely insane?"

"Yes." She flashes her eyes at him, dark with fear yet somehow shining with her humor, too.

"You are the barmiest woman I have ever met. You know that, right?" He enquires sincerely; hoping she understands him and appreciates that he is a bit in awe of her. "I wasn't going to shoot you. Never would have happened."

She leans over and bumps him, "Yes, you were."

"I wasn't."

"There's still time," she says and her cheeks round just before she flashes a full toothy smile at the fact she is aware that has two meanings.

He shrugs and shakes his head. He leans in as if to kiss her. His head snaps up, "Do you hear that?"

Her phone beeps. [Tell him to give you his gun and follow the sound of the violin, if convenient.]

John smiles. He stands and drops the heavy weapon in her lap. He kisses her on the forehead and cups her cheek in his warm hand. "Don't wait up. See you soon." He reaches in his pocket and pulls out something. "Oh, and you might be needing these. Gun's not much use without the clip."

She looks down at the Browning. "You threatened me with an unloaded gun?"

"I would not shoot you. I was bluffing. He was probably watching. It's why Mycroft's men disappeared. He ordered them off," John explains, his face bearing a few lines of regret on his forehead.

"You _will_ come back? Won't you?"

He laughs as if he is going to dismiss her. He shakes his head and takes a few steps to walk away, the violin calls in the distance. He stops and looks back. She blows him a kiss.

John marches back to her and leans down close to her face. "I meant it, too. The things I said out there on the island? I really do love you. The answer is yes, for now. You keep that ring and as long as you wear it, I will know it means, maybe we can figure this out someday. Don't wait for me, but if you're still unattached when we get back, we'll talk." His mouth closes to her and she meets him with all the hunger they ever shared.

"Come home. Both of you."

He doesn't say more, but he gives her a nod. It isn't a promise, but it is enough for her.

John turned and searched the darkness, then trotted off toward the sound of a lone violin and the silent call of violence. Molly watched him and took a deep breath. She stood and headed home for a good cry and a huge bag of Quavers. She would rent 'Paint Your Wagon' and listen to Lee Marvin sing.

She knew she would worry, but at least whatever fate they found, they would find it together. She looked down at her hand and the ring sparkled in the streetlights. She had just luckily found a cab and settled herself for the ride to her flat, when the first huge drops patter on the top of the black and lime-green Fairway.

"Twenty-six Hooper, please," she says, searching the rainy night for a tall man and an army doctor, meeting in the shadow of a doorway or dashing down a mews.

Tomorrow, London would smell fresh and the drizzle would keep the streets shiny. Molly would go to work and life would seem a little dull, but at night she would dream of the sea and someday she would stay on Bryher Island long enough to see the waves crash in Hell's Bay. The storm won't frighten her because John's blue eyes will be in the sea and Sherlock's will be in the shallows.

_**The end**_

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_This is the end of book one. Yes there is a Book Two which will be posted under this same URL and** not** as a second story. Thank you for your reviews and follows - stick this story on alert and you won't have to search. I am overwhelmed at the wonderful response and your kind comments._


	24. Offerings to the Temple of Mendacity

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**:Offerings to the Temple of Mendacity - Book Two of the Mendacity series.  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

_Welcome back. This book begins with trouble and more trouble, but I hope you will enjoy it. This is a long chapter but it begins right after book one. There is no six month time warp. The last Book ended on a happy, hopeful spot...but this is what happens next. Things can go to the devil very quickly in dear old London town. This book has a slightly different format. (Yes, it's an experiment) I start you in Molly's POV but can't tell the whole story from her eyes. Hope you will stick it out before you decide it's too sad to survive. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Book Two**

**Soldiers fall too.**

**_"You're a soldier of mercy, you're cold and you curse,_**

**_'He who cannot be trusted must fall.'"_**

**_– Bob Dylan, No Time To Think [Street Legal, 1978]_**

Molly awoke fuzzily to the sound of knocking. She scrambled out from under the covers and tripped, landing on all fours. Her dressing gown (actually Sherlock's) is at the end of her bed, and she quickly ties it around her, cursing that she must look a sight. The knocking gets louder and without thinking she throws the door wide in annoyance and demands, "What!"

The man turns and clears his throat, "May I come in?" he asks somberly.

"Greg. Umm, sure. I suppose." She stands aside, confused, but tries to give him an apologetic smile as she smooths her hair and wonders what he must think of her, not dressed at half-nine in the morning. "Kind of a late night and I have a shift tonight, so bit of a lie-in. Have a seat. Tea?"

"No, actually I'm here on official business. Could you have a seat? Please?" He motions for her to sit on her flower-jumble couch, intending to join her there.

She cocks her head at him, unable to figure out if he's found out about John's gun, or if someone has questioned something on Sherlock's post mortem. Either will get her arrested. "Am I in trouble, then?" she says trying to joke, but honestly just sounding scared and guilty. They may spend every Sunday together at Mrs. Hudson's, but if he has to choose between friendship and work, Molly knows he will do what he thinks must be done. He arrested Sherlock.

"No, love. Nothin' like that. Just come sit here." He smiles as if he's paying dearly for the gesture, and again motions her to have a seat. His familiarity jolts her and she finally registers his face isn't just full of hesitant regret, but pity.

Molly complies slowly, not taking her eyes off him. He only slipped into pet names when he didn't want to tell her something. After Sherlock died, he'd spoken this way to her. Her knees bend and the left one pops, making her feel suddenly old. He sometimes shows up for a hot cuppa and a talk, but Greg looks brittle and not like he has any secret party plans for Mrs. Hudson or deliciously funny gossip on his mind.

He takes his seat next to her, not even removing his mackintosh. It radiates a chill as if the world has turned cold. It dawns on her, he's going to tell her something awful. "Oh, God. Who?"

"I'm… so sorry." He takes a deep breath and his eyes are going shiny as his mouth forms the words, hesitant and gentle, shoulders hunched with weight, "It's John." His lips clamp between his teeth and his breath hitches. His face pulls into a grimace and he wipes his eyes quickly and sniffs his nose. His head shakes and he is not quite in control of himself.

She shakes her head, grins like he's telling her a joke, sees his face isn't displaying any mirth and then looks down to see he has taken her hand in his. "Is he hurt? What hospital?" Her mind at once fills in that Sherlock probably got John injured already. Greg is here to take her to him. He's like a kindly big brother, with a touch of overprotective father.

Greg's hand is cold from the rain and he's rubbing his thumb on her ring. It is still pouring outside and he is covered in dots of water his mac has repelled. They are shiny, silvery beads with glittering miniature images of her reflected in distorted glass. His body shifts subtly toward her more and she perceives a whiff of rain mixed with aftershave and damp wool. He looks back up into her eyes then away, his voice sounds hoarse as if he's been shouting, "Molly, this not easy for me, especially since you're…I…"

She nods, "He's been hurt, hasn't he? He's going to be okay, isn't he?"

Lestrade looks like his heart is about to break, his chin quivers and he looks ceiling-ward as he takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. "I regret to inform you, that John Watson has, by our best guess, perished," he says, reverting to his usual Yarder method of delivering news to loved ones. He'd wanted to say it kinder and not make it sound so much like a stranger, but he'd resorted to what he knew, to keep himself from making a cocked-up mess of it, trying to soften something that could not be polished.

Molly sat there, eyes wide, no response, as she attempted to digest the words_. He's mistaken. John is safe with Sherlock. John couldn't be dead. _She saw him trot off following the sound of the violin_. What if someone found him before he reached Sherlock? What if Sherlock is hurt too? Nobody would know to look for him if they were both hurt in an alley, but no, to their best guess? What does best guess mean? _John's missing but they think he's been killed? "Wha…What...happened?"

Greg swallowed hard and with a deep breath, said, "I wanted to be the one to tell you. We don't have a body… I mean, any remains, but that happens sometimes in these cases. People've got no idea how bad the current is. The Thames is never an easy rescue. Well, you know, you have had to examine enough of them. It looks placid but it's swift and cold. Happens all the time. Make a gesture, or fall in drunk. RNLI was dispatched. They were right there, but he never surfaced. Tower lifeboat station got the call, there were witnesses. Two of them were Mycroft's men. One happened to be trained in rescue swimming, he dove in right after. He had to be rescued, in fact."

"Not, my John." Her face begs him to clarify that he means some other John.

"God, I'm so sorry. They did all they could. He just never came back up. Set up a very generous search parameter with the officer in charge. Mycroft stepped in and got us some budget, they're spending a bomb trying. Got him a helicopter and they are still looking, but…could be days or never. Divers checking to see if he got snagged up, but we may never know. Even with all the- "

Molly can't process this information. She stands up but falls back down to her seated position. "No. No. It isn't fair. Someone pushed him. He wouldn't. He wouldn't, Greg. Not after…" Not after he finally found Sherlock. She reaches up and covers her mouth to stop from screaming_. Did Sherlock abandon him? No, No he wouldn't be that stupid. It had to be a trick, unless… Did Sherlock refuse to listen to him? John was going to go with him? Did he throw John away? "I will die by your side or…" Oh, John. You gave me your gun, but you had the escape bag. You wouldn't do it this way._

"Oh, bloody hell, Molly. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I hate having to tell you, but there are reporters and it's gonna make the news, every hour, all day. They remembered him and Sherlock chumming about and it's all turning into a circus. They won't take long to figure out who you are. That damned picture…of the kiss. Didn't want you to find out that way."

"But, if they haven't found him, it could be anybody. It could be anyone at all. Lots of people look like him. They made a mistake, that's all," Molly declares, a false boldness and ease in her voice, yet an imploring mien creeping into her eyes, begging him to stop telling her something so stupid.

"Molly, he left a note, his wallet, and his phone on Waterloo Bridge. At six-fourteen, according to the time stamp on the footage, this morning, just at sunrise. He was seen climbing over the rails and he didn't wait around. Most take hours and two dozen people chin-wagging to either make their point or pull back. It's just a cry for help. John wasn't making a gesture. He got right to his intended plans. A lad here from uni, caught it on his camera phone. He and his friends popped out for the sunrise. Wasn't raining then. They were just out for kicks and having a laugh. The pictures clear and crisp. The bloody kids leaked it to the media…God, it's on every channel. Got no doubt," he says reasonably, in his most soothing voice.

"He wouldn't do it like that. He's a doctor. Drowning hurts. It takes too long. Eighteen minutes to expire, Greg. It's horrible. He wouldn't do it like that," she is reasoning it through, using her training and experience to convince Greg of his error. She's determined to persuade him this cannot be.

"So that means you did realize he has been suicidal for…well, ever since Sherlock." Greg reaches out as he watches Molly shatter, piece by piece. He hands her his handkerchief. Seconds later he folds her in his arms and rocks her. "God, I'm sorry. Sherlock, now John. I didn't want you to see. Mrs. Hudson sent me. She's devastated. Mycroft is there. He's got people searching his flat, it's all pretty cut and dry, but you know his posh, insufferable way. I shouldn't say that. Least he's trying and if not for him, they'd have called it a job by now."

Molly begins to sob and Greg chews his lip and pats her like a child, murmuring silly, meaningless words. The only thing he can make out is 'all my fault' and he chides her gently. He tries to convince her that she can't predict the future, as if he's speaking to his daughter.

He gives her a few minutes and then she leans back and dries her tears, numb and shattered. "He went with Sherlock," she said in a very small voice. She covered her mouth and shook her head, realising she shouldn't have let that slip.

Greg nods. "Yeah, I guess so, sweetheart. That's the jist of his note. You sit here and I'm going to make that tea."

Molly nods, still holding her fingers clamped to her mouth_. Did Sherlock know? If Mycroft is with Mrs. Hudson, he must. _She is torn between feeling grief for Sherlock so raw she wanted to rush straight to his side and being so angry at him she never wanted to speak to him again. All of this effort, was doomed from the beginning. This is the worst moment of her life.

By the time Greg had the tea made, Molly had slipped back into her room and quickly dressed in jeans and a jumper John had left at the flat. It smells of him and she couldn't help but picture his body swirling and dancing to the current, heading out to sea by now, skin absorbing water and face just beginning to swell and distort_. No. Stop it. I can't think about that now._ But Molly's mind doesn't obey her very well and she can't escape her own morbid imagination.

She closes her eyes and sniffs the collar, not wanting to let him go and yet her mind can picture him in the water, just another average looking man, departed and ready to melt away from all he once brought to the world. He would never leave this pleasant intoxicant on a piece of clothing again. John's gone to the sea and his eyes are part of the water. Rigor mortis would have just begun, delayed by the cold water, but his body will be losing temperature faster than if he weren't in the liquid. The last warmth of his life would be seeping out and his eyes would be looking into the murk that took him. Sometimes Molly hated her job and wished her mind didn't catalogue all the stupid information that assaulted her as she thought about John drowned.

Greg returned with two cups of tea and pressed one into her hands. Molly sipped it, looking out the window and watching the rain, worried about him being out in this, alone. It is silly of course, he won't care at this point, but the thought still tugs at her heart. Her eyes close and she remembered how just a few hours ago he was on his knees, warm and almost happy, and how she had ruined it all. "He asked me. And I told him yes, but that he would change his mind. He promised. The last memory had to be spectacular. It was. It was lovely. Not how I expected. Still. It was. If I had known…" she sips her tea.

"I'm so sorry to have to ask, but you were there last night. What time did you leave his flat?"

"About midnight we went for a walk. We talked. I caught a cab from the park home and he left. I thought he would be okay. He said he would see me soon. "

"You think it was over the violin? Mycroft said it…was worth more than you or I will ever make. You think that might be what pushed him? What time was it when you left him?" Greg asks again.

"After two," Molly sets her tea on the table, shaking too hard to hold it any longer.

"Best we can figure, he went to the flat, had a cup of tea, left again. Took his service pistol, decided not to …you know, Mrs. Hudson and all. Changed his mind and decided on the bridge." He says as gently as possible.

"I have his gun," she says softly.

His eyebrows shoot up. "May I ask? Was there any kind of an argument?"

She waited, then sighed and nodded. "We did argue. We were probably a sight. But it was all fine when he left, I thought. We made up. He was not intending anything like this when we parted."

"I see. Tell me what it was all about, Molly?" he studies her, eyes appraising yet still friendly.

She smirked as if it would sound too stupid, but it was more of a painful scowl then a smile. "Sherlock, of course. Somehow he still rules, even now. It was just too much for John, the violin being gone. John wasn't himself. He…he pulled the gun on me. But we got it all sorted. It wasn't even loaded," she almost laughed, her eyes distant. "I don't even know how to load it much less shoot it. He just can't be gone. He was in the army, he could maybe swim."

"Yeah. But not for hours, and with the temperature drop last night, look Molly, I wouldn't be here if I had any hope. He.. he didn't come back up. Most pop back up, struggle against the current. John didn't surface, best we keep realistic expectations. Did he say anything about meeting anyone else?"

Molly froze. "No." she says and sips her tea again.

"Thing is, we have a few CCTV frames, showing him walking with a man. We think it was him, not the best angle, but I hoped maybe he mentioned meeting a friend or where he was going after the park. If I didn't know better…I mean he was a tall sort, it kinda reminded me … never mind, of happier days. He didn't seem distressed. He was on the cameras for Tower Bridge rescue; he just was walking along and suddenly turned and climbed up and jumped. No standing there, no time for anyone to say a thing. Tosser with the camera phone was recordin' before. Would'a missed it entirely otherwise. Damnedest thing I ever … not a second's hesitation. Most pace back and forth and think about it. He didn't. I just can't get my head around that. He didn't think about any of us."

Molly winces at the image. She leans into him and he holds her, kissing the top of her head and soothing her and maybe himself a little as well. So far as a police officer remaining detached in this case, Greg has failed on every count. But, he is human and this is John he's having to discuss. John and Molly have been his to watch over since before Sherlock died. He had loved Sherlock and therefore those who Sherlock loved were his by osmosis. Sunday at Mrs. Hudson's had become about all he had now as far as family. This wasn't duty. John was his family.

Here with Molly, he's as close as he can get to display the injury he feels. He couldn't show his grief, except hidden as barking orders, among his colleagues. As it was, Sally Donovan had insisted on driving him here, like he needed her pity. He knew she was still uneasy with him, since she and Anderson had gone over his head and been such a dolorous stroke in the events surrounding Sherlock's death. He knew she was just being a cop and doing her job, but he would never trust her instincts again.

She could be right, wrong or crooked as a stick, but methodical and contentious as she was, she had no instincts. It is something he considers vital to all really good cops. She would always make a fine assistant, spot on as far as precise detail and facts, but she always blew it by either not trusting her instincts or not having them.

Greg had let her talk him into the wrong path once too often. She was down in the car now, frustrated and probably whining to Anderson what an idiot he was being about John Watson. The signs were all there, she told him three times. It's all open and shut, and they are wasting their time, Sally has patiently mentioned. She has quoted the high rates of suicide among Physicians. It is as deadly as being a cop she had joked.

She listed John's markers that should obviously prove that Greg's instinct didn't justify how he is acting. She had talked all the way to Molly's apartment in her low patient tone, assuming his silence meant she should continue. " John is just a basic everyday case, Detective. _No Matter _that he was your friend_._ John was a wounded soldier suffering from PTSD. He was living alone. He had a high stress traumatic loss in the past three years, to suicide, which he witnessed. He was making large life-changing, stress-inducing decisions. It isn't farfetched. I wish for you it was, but you have to stop. You're going overboard."

Greg listened to Sally, but he just didn't agree. John deserved someone to go over the top for him. Maybe he did kill himself, but Greg knew his instincts said he was missing something. He didn't care what anyone thought, he didn't believe the evidence was the whole story.

He looked at Molly, wanting to express how much he was hurting right this minute too. John had been changed by Sherlock's death, hell they all were, but he'd been coming back from that broken place finally. " John was a fine man, by the way. Brave. So damned loyal," Greg sighed with frustration and sorrow. When he continued his voice broke, "So bloody wasteful. All those brains, both of 'em."

Greg stands, noticeably restless and exhausted. He paces about, still trying to come to terms with it himself. "Why'd he give you his gun?" he turned suddenly with the question, surprising her. "You can't shoot it and you can't load it. He must've known that."

"I don't know," she says hesitantly.

"But you took it. Must've been a good reason?"

"He pulled it on me. I figured it was safer in my purse," she answers. Her ears feel hot.

"God. He threatened you? That's crazy, isn't it? So you think he just cracked up? Snapped and endangered you? Why didn't you call us? Had to be frightening. He's a dab shot, you know. Was," Greg said the last word, moving John to past tense with a shaking head. Adjustments to a new reality needing to be made quickly were his stock and trade, but it was always harder with friends. He could not imagine John pointing a gun at her unless he had gone mad. Nothing about last night seemed to match with the John Watson he knew.

"It was over. Didn't want to get him into trouble," she answers, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Might have been for the best, sitting in a … I don't mean that…You couldn't have known. Hell, if anybody should have spotted it, I should have. I just…need to know. I mean he was pretty chuffed about announcing your plans. He proposed and he looked like a man in love, to me. I was relieved, if you want'a know. He's been in a bad way for a long time, but last night, I thought that maybe it was getting better for him. But still, he pulls a gun on you, then hands it to you, and you go home. Less than four hours later…" Greg stares at her, evaluating her.

"He caught me in a lie, and he was very angry. He realised he was acting crazy. He handed it to me so I would know it wasn't loaded. Told me he would see me soon, to go home. I did. And now you're here. I don't know anything else. I wish I did." She chooses her words carefully, picking her way delicately through a verbal minefield.

"Oh, never mind me, Molly. Just faffing around trying to figure it out. I liked him, you know? He was such a good chap and this is such a shite end for a man like that. He saved lives for God's sake. He was making plans to marry you and it is such a … damned shame." He flops back down, takes two guzzles of the tepid tea and gives her a smile of commiseration. "I just want to understand it all. He was my friend. What did I miss, last night? I didn't have a clue. I should have seen it. Should have seen some sign, it's what I'm trained for. Any other night for the last year, I was sort of prepared. I mean Mycroft has called me. We haven't camped in the Jaguar for months. I missed something. Sherlock would detest me for this."

"It isn't your fault."

He nods, "Yeah. Yeah, it's what everyone said about Sherlock, too. Not my fault. Thing is, something right here," he bangs his chest twice, "tells me it is."

Molly shakes her head and leans into her crossed arms as if she had a stomach-ache. "Everything hurts. I feel like I'm coming apart from the inside. This is what it was like for him, I guess, but worse. I need to see it." Molly lifts the remote and points it at her telly.

"No. Don't do that. Serves no purpose." Greg says slowly, scrunching his nose.

Her finger hovers over the power button, but she presses it with resolve.

'…leading the search and rescue for Dr. John Watson. It is rumored that he had been unable to cope with the accusations of fraud and treason that may have contributed to the suicide of the late consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, who plunged to his own death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital just a little over a year ago. Holmes was posthumously cleared of all charges. Friends and family have asked we all keep the former army surgeon and decorated war hero in our thoughts and prayers. Here again is the footage, recorded by three students, walking in the early morning hours, on scenic Waterloo Bridge. Back to you, William."

'Good Morning. At the top of the hour, Mathew Carter will give you the latest on the FTSE 100 and what's happening right now on the London Stock Exchange. Kerrigan Havertry will tell us about our record temperature drop overnight and Scott Kole will bring you an update on what's to be expected this week in sports. Currently, we have the sad duty to report that a respected and beloved member of our community, best remembered for his work on some of the most baffling crimes of recent times, has apparently been reported missing. At this time, it is confirmed that the search and rescue mission has now changed over to search and recovery. Dr. John Watson, is presumed dead. Please be cautioned, these images may be disturbing.'

The clip begins with a girl's face smiling and saying 'Hi' to her mother. In the background a man can be seen walking. The camera goes from her face and suddenly focuses on the man lifting his foot up on the rails. The wind warbles the sound quality and the amateur camera man's breath is clearly heavy as he focuses bumpily from the girl to the man directly behind her climbing the rail. He zooms in at a dizzying speed and the lurching is exacerbated with each breath and twitch he makes. John's face, looks calm with grim determination. He pays no attention to his audience as he finds his center of balance and stands up on the handrails, arms wide for stability.

'Hey, what's that bloke about, then?"

'Christ, you think he's a jumper? What's he doing?" a separate male voice asks from outside the viewer's range of field.

The image shows John discarding a few items behind him. He stands stiffly, salutes. Then spreads his arms and falls forward. The camera-person rushes to the edge of the bridge and catches the splash with shaking hands and keeps the device focused on the river suddenly even shakier with adrenaline; there is a cacophony of sounds as the group mentality centers on stunned disbelief. They ask each other what to do and the girl can be heard describing what she just witnessed to someone in an emotionally unstable voice hovering near panic.

"Look. Another one." The second male voice prompts.

The camera swings back to the bridge and two men can be seen, one throwing his dark jacket, shirt and tie hastily to the other as he vaults up onto the rails. The man holding his cloths, points to something in the water and the other nods, and breathes with obviously exaggerated distress in preparation for the cold water below.

"Naw, he's trying to save the first bloke, I bet." The shirtless man is shown plunging into the Thames in a graceful dive. There is a splash and then the shot ends.

'Despite valiant efforts of the unnamed government employee who happened by on his way to work, John Watson, doctor, war hero and crime specialist, is dead." The voice jumps jarringly from funereal to lively. "Tonight we will have a special exposé on the spectacular rise and tragic fall of the dynamic, though often misunderstood, team of Holmes and Watson, Britain's most beloved super-sleuths, the end of their story, but the beginning of their legend, tonight at seven. Up next…"

Molly mutes the volume. She looks up at Lestrade and sighs, head shaking in denial. "It was definitely him. No question. Maybe they just didn't see him, and he got out." She is nestling into his arms again, hanging on for dear life and mumbling her words into his shirtfront.

He rubs her back, maybe clinging to her a bit, too. Grief is far above all standards of proper behavior conditioning and without bashful barriers or the need for social graces, they comfort each other, stiff upper lip be cursed. "Molly. I was two blocks away. Just off an investigation. Call came across the in-board. I was there within ten minutes. If anybody wanted to find him, it was me. The sea took him. I sort of hope that, in a way. Just gone. You had to do for Sherlock, and I know how bad that was, but floaters…sorry, drowning victims, I don't want you to see that. Not for John. I think maybe he'd like it that way better, too." He sighs and she can feel his breath in her hair.

They won't talk about it later, but an agreement is gently knotted in these two wounded hearts. From this day forward, in times of need, they each had found a sorrow's friend. They had been acquaintances sliding into family since the Sunday dinners at Mrs. Hudson's began. This day tied new bonds. Greg had flapped back and forth between friend and professional several times this visit, but as he held her, and couldn't help feeling his own loss, friendship won. Molly made him feel big and strong and protective. "John was either a damned fool, or there is more to this story. I won't give up."

Molly stiffens slightly then nods. "I'm glad it was you that told me. Thank you for that."

Just before he leaves, Greg turns his tired, seen-too-much eyes on her. "Got the letter when you're feeling up to it. I wouldn't say this to just anyone, but, I have to tell myself that both of 'em are happy now. Terrible as it sounds, God help us for knowing it, but at least now…it's okay for them. I'm just…worried about you a bit. You need me…anything. I mean that."

Molly forces a smile, "I appreciate, that you came. I would have been a mess if I had to find out from telly or some stranger."

Greg's shoulders shrug and he is embarrassed by her acknowledgement. "I was afraid you would'a already had it on. It's high profile. Just wanted you to have a heads up, inquest and the whole mess—you'll likely be called to testify. I know you have to do this all the time, but this one may be a bit dodgy if we don't figure out who the man in the CCTV is. Mean's you were the last to see him alive. Not the same as just giving them details on a stranger. Won't be as bad as Sherlock, I hope. I'll be in the middle of it too, but you call me, no matter. I'm taking you and Mrs. H. out on Sunday, no sense her fussing with cooking all day. We gotta carry on and remember we still have people who care. I know none of us will be in the mood, but well, the three of us…we need to stick together. We don't have much of anyone else these days. "

"Thanks, I'll call. I promise." she says with a nod and an attempt at a smile of thanks. Molly knew she would call him, because this is just the beginning of hell, and Greg may not be brilliant, but he has a map.

Lestrade spends as long as he can with Molly, but he needs to get back to the scene. Sally doesn't say a word driving back, but he can tell by her antsy driving that she wants to say all sorts of things. She stops at a sandwich shop for lunch and forces a paper wrapped turkey and rye into his hands. He nods and smiles at her a little. She was a hard bird in a yard full of pigeons, but so long as she didn't give up, maybe she would find her instincts one day.

He conducts his police business of the day, on scene, waiting stoically in the downpour for his friend to be brought out of the river. The search is called off finally. It is nothing unusual for London. It happens here, every three or four days, that someone decides to end it this way. They usually aren't very successful. RNLI [Royal National Lifeboat Institution] has an exemplary track record. Over ninety-percent of all suicides and accidental fall-ins are rescued each year. Of those who aren't, only about half wash up on shore, somewhere, eventually.

Lestrade leans on the railing, exhausted, contemplative and cold. He looks out at the water, as if he could look hard enough to make Watson surface and smile an apology for everyone's trouble. He wished for some miracle, knowing it was too much 'Doctor Who' and not enough sleep making his mind tumble into such ridiculous craving, but at least it kept him from nodding off. His reserves had been long expended this day, and old regrets had tormented his two hours of sleep last night, so he keeps standing and wishing and watching the river.

The Thames is stunning and picturesque, but she is an unforgiving beauty and for those who trust her whims, there are inevitable falls. She is a gatherer of lost souls and today, Gregory Lestrade, feels her call in his bones. He'd lost two friends in the last year, and he's weary. He is tired of burying great men.

He croons the words that he can remember to an old Bob Dylan tune as he started home, wishing for yesterday. He understands not having time to think, unfortunately thinking is not optional in his line of work. He has spent the day trying to think but the bits will never add up to John Watson's life snuffed out in the Thames being something unpreventable. Destiny cheated John and there is no platitude that can change the pointless waste of all he still had to give.

**_"Mercury rules you and destiny fools you_**

**_Like the plague, with a dangerous wink…"_**

**_– Bob Dylan, No Time To Think_**

* * *

**_A.N._**

**_I know you are mad at me right now. Don't give up. I do love Hamlet. Here is one of those quotes I find adorable. _**

**_'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,_**

**_Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Hamlet, scene v_**

**_Keep that in mind at least until the next five chapters._**

**_If you feel like yelling at me, there is a nice little box provided for that purpose. Thanks for reading. More very soon._**


	25. Chapter 25 - 2 - Sorrow

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_**- A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.**_

_**Alfred Lord Tennyson**_

Molly immediately texted Sherlock.

[Where are you? Are you alright? Please, tell me this is a magic trick.]

She waited for a reply but when nothing was returned, she packed her largest purse with toiletries and a simple change of clothes and headed to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson has a kitchen full of people and Molly feels a little foolish for intruding, but Mrs. Hudson welcomes her with all those motherly words older women could deliver with such heart that they warmed you, even if they were technically quite meaningless. "Bless your heart. My poor lamb. There, there," and many others made an appearance by the time her first cup of tea had washed down three biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson presided over the gathering like a dignified pelican fussing over fish. She was as strong as her brew and she might sigh and look toward the ceiling as if waiting to hear footsteps from time to time, but she never faltered under the watchful eye of Isabelle Turner. She never batted an eye at the way her friends discussed her trouble with renters. They all gave the impression of being a bit mad with the way they jumped from subject to subject and seemed to make comments that sounded a bit rude, but not one of them appeared bothered by what the others said. Molly sat quietly, listening and trying to read it all as the older women expressed their condolences in one breath and criticism in the next.

"Well, my married ones have their little domestics but they aren't as volatile as your boys were. You were just too soft on them. I said it from day one. Should have taken them in hand and you have always let your lines blur between mothering them a bit and being their mother," Mrs. Turner said with conviction.

"Oh, blast that, Izzy. You think you know everything and I saw exactly what you were about back in '84. Don't let her fool you for a wink, Martha. She's got no room to talk, carrying on with that Wiggams chap like he was God's gift. Left owing her eight month's rent and had that other poor girl in trouble to boot. That wasn't even the last of your business I could –" Mrs. Dalrimple said with popping-wide merry eyes.

"You just hush, Ida Dalrimple." Mrs. Turner cuts her off.

"No use bringing up old hash. Martha needs that like she needs long red knickers. Besides, her guest belonged to the poor crippled doctor and she might take all our chin-wagging wrong. We are so sorry to hear of your loss, my poor, poor, dearie." Laura Hernsley declared sweetly to Molly.

Molly nodded, but doesn't know quite what to say. They were discussing John and Sherlock as a couple, yet asking no explanation that she and John had also been a couple. She found it amusing and yet slightly disconcerting that women of this age could be so worldly. She wondered how long it had taken Mrs. Hudson to fill them in on the various shades of gay.

She had always thought older ladies to be a bit more like Mrs. Brewerton, sweet but painfully inexperienced when it came to matters outside the realm of polite social standards of their own girlhood. Mrs. Brewerton had referred to John and Sherlock being alluded to as a couple in the papers as 'that silly gossipy business' and had taken care to explain that her boyfriend is 'all man', as if John could not love a woman if he'd ever actually been with a man. It had befuddled Molly to contemplate that if John had been with Sherlock openly, that Mrs. Brewerton would have changed how she viewed John.

She wondered again what John had meant when he told her he had loved men in the past but had said he had 'not really' made love to them. She assumed it meant he had dallied with a man or two, but had some silly definition of his own about what sex was or wasn't. She would have had such fun dragging such an explanation out of him, bit by teasing bit, until he laughed and went on a rant about his bizarre self-analytical hedging. None of it mattered, at all.

Sherlock and John were the most exasperatingly beautiful kind of love she'd ever seen. All she'd asked was to be near it. Being part of it would be a dream. She knew she was capable of loving each of them with all her heart, but even if they couldn't love her back in the glow of each other, this thought of it destroyed was far worse. John would not have jumped off a sodding bridge. To hell with the fact she'd seen the proof, she wasn't sure, because she knew first hand that proof didn't prove anything.

Upstairs thumps and knocks can be heard. Mrs. Hudson glared upward and shook her head in disgust. "Still up there poking around. John was such a private boy. He would have hated this. That man has a screw loose somewhere, and I don't care who he thinks he is," Martha Hudson says in a loud whisper.

"What's he nosing in the poor man's business for anyhow? He's dead, isn't he? Drove me mad, that government car parked outside my building at all hours, watching your building and taking my parking. Should be ashamed," Mrs. Turner whispered back with her teeth gritted.

"Oh, you know Mycroft, he does it his way. All I know is he better not leave a mess. of it. I already had my share when we lost Sherlock. The bits of…people… I found just lolling around in plain sight," she made a tsk noise and widened her eyes for emphasis, "would have made your insides quiver."

Molly smirked behind her teacup, certain she could have made a list of some of the things Mrs. Hudson disapproved of the most. She'd helped Sherlock acquire most of it.

Mrs. Hernsley leaned forward with a knowing expression and a superior air of authority. "Porn. All men young and old are perverts and the only cure for it is a pine box. Do you remember that nice Mr. Wilson, always dressed so fancy and proper, had to be a hundred and twelve if a day? He had a bucket load of magazines delivered every month. Told me they were 'scientific journals', and me believing him , too. Up and dies on me and I go up to make a list of what damage might need seeing about. Everything neat as a pin and in good order, until I open the spare bedroom. He has it stacked floor to ceiling. Must'a had half-a-million quid invested in looking at naked people. Not just girls, mind you. Took me weeks and cost me three vertebrae in me lower back. Hadn't made a dent. Some of it went back to the bloody nineteen-sixties. Finally found a dealer who hauled it all away for me, tickled to George."

"I do remember that. And the tidy check you managed to pick up as well." Mrs. Turner elbowed Mrs. Hernsley and they snicker conspiratorially.

"The wages of Satan spend just as pretty as the wages of back-breaking work." Mrs. Hernsley says with a wink. "It kept me the whole winter of my back surgery, with a set of burst pipes, the roof leaking like a colander, two empty flats and those three kids with that blasted dog chewing the window frames to splinters, and me laid up and helpless. It was that mad old tosser and his porn, kept me from ending up in some charity house."

"Well they won't find a scrap of naughty reading material up there. My boys were a good lot. Had no decency in the way they loved a good serial killer, but they were still such good boys, despite the noise and the strange smells, and all the rest. I'll have to haul that microwave out bit by bit, wouldn't want to alert any nosy biological hazard type people. John used that thing, just like it was natural to have had…listen to me going on. They were good boys." Mrs. Hudson doesn't sound defensive, just lost and miserable.

Everyone makes noises of agreement and Mrs. Dalrimple stands and embraces her cooing, "Of course they were, love. None better. You know we are here for you if you need anything," she says and the others nod and soon everyone is hugging and sniffling.

Mrs. Hudson hushes them all, cocking her ear upward. "Well, sounds like they are about finished. You all better push along before he makes one of his comments and upsets me. I'll ring you later."

Just about the time the ladies had gathered their coats, purses, gloves and scarves, Mycroft knocked. He greeted each by name and with a genteel bow that did not fool any of them, and those who acknowledged him at all, did so with a disapproving harrumph. He strolled into the kitchen with an indulgent smile fixed to his lips and reached in his pocket and withdrew an envelope. He placed it on the table, and tapped it with the tip of a finger.

"For any inconvenience. Also, I will continue to pay the rent until you are notified otherwise. We will eventually see to the belongings of my brother and Doctor Watson, but for the time being, their flat is to remain sealed. If you have any need to enter, simply call the number and we will send an agent to assist you. We have removed the most sensitive official papers, but one can't be too careful about the nature of the documents strewn about in my brother's files. Your cooperation is most appreciated," he said, eyes darting here and there as if searching for something.

"Bit late to worry about me seeing something secret. Who has been dusting it all along?" Mrs. Hudson says slightly offended.

"I realize that my brother relied on you, but this is more to protect you than one might conclude. I don't wish it to be necessary for you to allow strangers into the building in search of tenants at this time. They may have another agenda besides seeking accommodations and I will need more time to find all of Sherlock's hidden compartments. Wouldn't want someone inadvertently injured from accidentally discovering something he felt needed to be kept undisclosed." Mycroft explains as if he is indulging her.

"Sounds like a load of drip to me. You were never worried before, but it's none of my concern. I will need to run the taps from time to time. Pipes go bad just sitting. Would you like tea?" she says waving for him to take a seat.

"No. Thank you. I must get back. Terribly bad timing with the cholera and riots in Conakry, but you don't need to know about that. Miss Hooper, I request that you see me to my car?" he asks pleasantly.

The second Molly steps foot out into the street with him, he takes her arm and guides her firmly toward the car and opens the door. "Please," he says, gesturing for her to get in his car.

Molly slides clumsily across the seat and Mycroft follows, placing his damp umbrella near a vent and fussing with his pant creases to keep them from losing their pristine crisp lines. Molly doesn't wait for him to begin "Please tell me this is another magic trick?" she says unable to control how airy her voice sounds.

"Not to my knowledge."

"Sherlock knows about what happened?"

"I have not heard a peep from him since yesterday afternoon. Do explain to me what you were thinking? What possessed you to…betray him like that?"

"Mycroft, I never meant it to…John just wanted to go with him. So badly. That's all. I don't understand. John should be with Sherlock. He was falling apart. And your brother, too. Sherlock was going off on some stupid nutter plan he wouldn't survive. John just wanted to go with him and help. Greg said they saw John with him, well he didn't know it was him, but he picked up on the similarities. You will have to ask Sherlock why, because I don't think that was John's plan when he left me."

"No, by all means, assuage your guilt in the death of John Watson. You didn't actually hold his head under water. You just sent him to the bridge for a swimming lesson. I do feel it worth warning you, not to rely on my assistance in the future. In fact, should my brother not be located relatively quickly, you may deduce that we have now assumed an adversarial position, you and I. I am not especially reasonable when I am angered. And I am currently very angry with you. Imagine, if you will, how very fractious I shall be if your thoughtless actions should lead to Sherlock becoming careless in his endeavors."

"I imagine you will be far more creative than John was last night. Do keep in mind that even while he had his gun stuck under my chin, right here," she tucks two fingers under her chin for emphasis, " and I thought he might kill me…that he was that far into that cold dangerous side you and Sherlock warned me existed. Keep this one point in your mind-castle or whatever you call it… that even then, my intention was still to save them both. I may have made the wrong choice, but if John is dead, your brother had the last clear chance to save him. All he had to do was say he needed John."

Molly grabbed the sleeve of Mycroft's ebony suit jacket. He reacts by pulling away, but she latches on tightly in desperation. "All he had to do was say yes. That's all. Did he not read John's face? Could he have turned him down? Could Sherlock be that cruel? I could never believe he would send him away. He told me, he couldn't. He said he didn't think he was strong enough to turn him down. If he did? God, if he did and John…"

"I don't know," his voice rose slightly. Mycroft wrests his arm out of her grip.

Molly retreats, aghast that Mycroft Holmes doesn't have an answer, she pleads, "I couldn't have guessed…not ever, that it might come to…this. I didn't have a choice. You weren't there."

Mycroft brushes fastidiously at the slight wrinkle her hand has left on his sleeve. He made a disgusted noise and when he looks back up, his face is again that pleasant, smiling mask of fury he plays so well. The eyes gave it away: it is hatred, not amusement. "Be that as it may, you owed them both the courtesy of not deviating from the plan. The consequences… I fear John's suicide is just the tip of the iceberg. Tragic as that alone may seem, you have no idea where the ordnance was stored so you have no idea what may blow up in your face." Mycroft's eyes are slits of anger. He tugs at his collar and his breathing is harsh. "You are a very foolish girl, Miss Hooper. Now, get out of my sight and if you happen to hear from our dead duo, I expect an immediate review of all information."

Molly nods. "You and Sherlock should have told him. Blame me all you want, but John didn't jump from a bridge because I lied to him. You should think about that," her voice is low and hoarse with an emotional wobble. Molly glares at Mycroft and then shakes her head in disgust. She had let a spark of hope rise when he wanted to speak to her. She hoped John and Sherlock had come up with this crazy scheme to make it so the public thought them both dead, but Mycroft being so angry didn't look like that was the case. She had been so pleased when he asked her to see him out, and now she just wanted out of this car.

"I imagine we will be speaking further on this matter very soon. Don't bother hiding, my dear. My agents won't let you vanish as easily this time." He smirked at her and waved his hand, dismissing her. The driver opened her door, indicating she should exit the car.

Molly stood on the kerb and watched Mycroft and several other officially unmarked vehicles drive away. She checked her phone. There were no messages from Sherlock. The stairs up to 221b called her. She glanced around, knowing there were cameras and that she would be caught sneaking up the stairs, but with a sigh, she tiptoed up the stairs anyway. Mycroft could only have her murdered once.

She knew where John kept his escape bag, and she had to see if it was there or not. She used her key and quietly stepped into the kitchen. The flat seemed eerie. This was not the first time she'd been here without John, but it was the first time she ever felt shivers. She worked among the dead, and had never believed in ghost stories, but for her, there were ghosts in these rooms.

Memories of moments assaulted her and her breath began huffing into airy, almost silent, sobs.

Looking at the mantle, she could see the ghost of a strange red box, so similar to the one she herself had given Sherlock that night, which he didn't even open after making fun of her. She could see her box tossed aside and an uncomfortable Sherlock Holmes excusing himself from the horrible Christmas Eve party, with a look of fear on his face almost masked by his aloof disdain. She had felt like such a fool that night. But she had not understood at the time that he was going through exactly the same thing she is now.

There should be a blond head turned away from her, peeking above the big red-and-taupe cigar chair with the union jack cushion. John's voice should be teasing her that she wasn't doing him any good in the kitchen.

There are dishes in the sink, and she felt the urge to wash them and put them away. They were not John's, but were left by the crew of people who had been riffling through his things. For her, John and Sherlock still breathed here and it broke something deep in her to think they might never come home.

She sat at the kitchen table and took a moment to let the despair, pulsating and begging for her to welcome it, have her. She needed to see if that bag was here, but she didn't want to know. If his escape bag was here, it meant he didn't take it with him and she couldn't even decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, because its absence would not prove he was alive. Mycroft's team could have taken it, but if it were here, then she had to assume this entire horrible day may be real. If John had somehow faked this whole thing, and he and Sherlock were just off saving the world together as they should be this minute, John would have taken the bag. She is clinging to a tiny optimism. Going upstairs may not confirm her hope that John is alive but it could obviously solidify that all hope of ever seeing him again is lost.

Greg said that John had returned to the flat and made tea and that he had left a note on Waterloo Bridge. She had read his note, or most of it. She hoped. She was clinging to this last tiny optimism that John somehow was safe and he and Sherlock were just unable to make her aware that this was a ruse. It may be days before they had the ability to make contact with her, and that faith was all she was clinging to right this minute. If she went up to his room and the bag is there, she could no longer believe in that scenario. Her ability to tell herself that scenario won't exist. A missing bag might not constitute proof, but its presence would be a definitive argument that John is dead.

Her tears subsided and the numbness slowly seeped back into her again. Molly breathed deeply and listened to the quiet of the flat. She can't hear them, but her mind played echoes of mumbled laughter and recreated moments of conversations John has spoken of between him and Sherlock. He'd told her how Sherlock and he had argued long ago about heroes existing. He'd told her how manic Sherlock could be when he really wanted to smoke and John had talked him into quitting. She was never part of these moments, yet she feels them around her, echoes of lost joy. She also remembers her own times in this flat.

She and John had christened nearly every surface with a shag. This very table had seen a great deal of action in the past few months. She smiled softly, lost in the first time they had returned from phone shopping and had barely dropped the bags in the floor before he had her bent over this table and had bruised her left hip, banging into her greedily from behind. It had been so naughty and wild and depraved, yet it was the fieriest passion she'd ever felt.

She remembered the way she had giggled and protested and yet had wanted him with abandoned need. She had tried to warn herself that he wouldn't respect a girl who acted like such a whore for a man, but that thought hadn't stopped her from meeting his thrusts, lost in that building need of her own to be free and take the pleasure of him no matter the consequences. Her stomach fluttered at the recalled sensation of giving up all pretenses that she was not lost in him that moment. She closed her eyes and sighed, shakily placing her hand in that exact spot where she had allowed herself to be consumed beyond reason or thought.

Her first flutter of honest love for John had made its home in her heart right here. They had noisily spent themselves and after she had returned to reality and her mind had come down from the chemical rush of this ridiculous moment of unguarded passion; her first reaction had been shame. Her head rested on this table, John's weight and breath heavy on her as she took stock of her skirt raked up and her knickers stretching painfully around her ankles and tangled in her stockings. She still had her shoes on and she could feel fluids leaching slowly down her leg. They had not even used a condom, which was mortifyingly against her rules and John had been so adamant on this point.

She had voiced her concern without meaning to. "I'm not on birth control," And she couldn't help but let it sound slightly accusatory and terribly fearful.

John had moved off her and she'd twisted around. He looked down at her, at the evidence of them making such a terrible error of judgment. She was bending and trying to struggle with her clothing and right herself. She couldn't meet his eyes. They were doctors. They were educated adults and both of them had just acted like idiotic teens. The thought of John's sexual past and the likelihood that he'd acquired any number of horrible tokens of this sort of behavior filled her with fury at herself. She knew better than this.

John had stopped her and smiled in gentle amusement, "I am a bit anal about getting myself tested. Every month actually, even though I haven't… been with anyone for months. I never do this. It's something about you. I don't think I have ever been so amazed, so utterly focused on a woman before. Forgive me. You are incredible and dangerous and I will apologize for losing my head here, but I won't apologize for how you make me feel. From now on we will be more careful. As far as a slip on the pregnancy bit?" he looks down then back in her eyes, cupping her cheek gently. "We'll cross that bridge together. You are a doctor and you know the options. I wouldn't be unhappy, no matter what you decided. My vote would be to not terminate, just so you know. But, my vote doesn't really count, unless you want it too."

Molly had looked in his eyes and studied him, taken aback by his quiet candid speech. "If I did get pregnant and wanted to keep it? You would be okay with that in what way?"

"I would hope you would allow me to be part of it? I would be a bit of a pain in the arse if you didn't want me around my child. I would try to live with it, if it's what you wanted, but you ought to assume there would be stalking. Not in a way that would threaten either of you, but I do know myself well enough to know I would have a telescope and worm my way into Mycroft's good graces enough to keep a very close eye on any mini-me created. Sorry, it would kill me not to love it, mistake or not," he states earnestly.

Molly had smiled and no, she had not wanted to have an accident at that moment, but his answer had dazzled a few little secret wondering thoughts out of her from time to time. She could see him as a father. She could imagine his face as he buttoned up a tiny coat and lifted a small child in his arms. Molly could see that he would have made a fantastic father, if he hadn't fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. A place for her had rooted, perhaps, even if Sherlock came home. Maybe, John could have the best of both worlds, and she could live with being a single mom with the support of a father like him for her child. It was not something she told John. She couldn't tell him anything like that now, but it was on her list of someday.

Now her list may be crushed. She stands abruptly as she let the thought of being a mother slip away. Her eyes were dry and her nose was running as she made her way stoically up the stairs to check for a deep blue duffle at the back of John's wardrobe, under his other suitcases and stacks of blankets.


	26. Chapter 26 - 3 - Impossible

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**"It is impossible to love and to be wise." - Francis Bacon**

**"No obligation to do the impossible is binding." - Marcus Tullius Cicero**

Molly pulled the duffle out from under the other debris of John Watson's life with a wail of sorrow. Her hand flies to her mouth until she thinks she can hold the sound in without a physical restraint. She reaches toward the bag on the floor before her kneeling form. She shook and whimpered as she unzipped it. Molly riffled through it frantic and blurry- eyed. The note was gone and his gun was still at her flat, of course, but as far as she could tell, the rest was there. Her hands fell on plasters, hemostats, various glues both medical and industrial, a roll of wire, and a leather bank bag full of several types of paper money. He would have taken the money. He would have needed money to disappear.

The note is gone but the money isn't. He decided not to take his bag, after obsessively packing and repacking it for all this time. Molly looked down at this glaring proof that he'd only removed the note as far as she could tell, though she had no actual inventory of what drugs and other supplies that he had tucked away. There could be things missing but she wouldn't know. The problem right now was that he seemed to have left too many useful items behind to have made an escape rather than an exit.

If John was really dead, he hadn't even said goodbye. He'd told her that he'd see her soon. No matter what happened between Sherlock and John, he should have cared enough to say something to her. Her mind felt cloudy with all the questions and possible answers. She needed to do something but she had nothing to do. Her eyes searched the room for something to do that would alleviate this turmoil of alive or dead thoughts sparring in her head.

It took her almost twenty minutes to collect herself enough to make her way back to Mrs. Hudson after she stopped digging mindlessly. She had managed a bit of a search of her own , collecting trinkets that made sense to her at that moment. She'd found his watch on a shelf in the bathroom and slipped it in her pocket, because John would need it and she would give it to him soon. A framed picture of the two of them riding the London Eye and grinning didn't belong packed away by strangers. She took a packet of photographs of them picnicking and riding the little boats in Regent's Park. She took three of his jumpers, his green windowpane check Chesterfield overcoat that he only wore on special occasions. She left as many sentimental tokens as she nicked.

She knew she was being completely irrational, but she moved about under an outward guise of confidence. She needed to do these things. The truth is that there is nothing for her to do that will help so her brain is misfiring tasks and they seem important at the moment. She hoped that she was having a bad dream and when she woke up, all these things she took would be missing, which would be proof that this had not happened anywhere other than her mind.

That purposeful harried search faded as she began to calm down from her manic state. She locked the door and walked down the stairs. The window at the bend of the stairs let a bit of vaguely colored light stream to the floor of the landing. She happened to look down and spotted something shiny in the corner. She bent down, shifting the burdensome blue bag onto her shoulder and picked up the little cufflink.

He had worn these the night they went to the opera. They had belonged to his grandfather and he'd been upset to discover he'd lost one of them. She wondered if it could have been here all along waiting to be discovered and reunited with its mate. They had walked up and down these stairs countless times since then and she was sure Mrs. Hudson had probably Hoovered many times subsequently, yet this brilliantly polished thing could not be located. It has waited to be discovered. Now that it probably didn't matter, here it is. It was too sad for her to even think about.

She examined it, trying to understand what the universe was trying to say, by putting this in her grasp. Was it a token to remember or was it a sign that things happen for a reason. Maybe it was even a message for her to keep looking and its owner would turn up.

She opened Mrs. Hudson's door and walked in, dazed and disheveled. She didn't knock or speak, and she reaches the middle of the parlor and her brain fizzles without any idea what to do next. She has had too much trauma and too little sleep and the systems overload, blanking her face and making her thoughts fire as if through static. The sun has set and she has lost hours up in John's flat.

Mrs. Hudson took one look and went into action. "Poor thing. What have you got there? Oh, a cufflink, where on earth did you? I think you better sit down, dear, you look like you've seen a ghost." Mrs. Hudson relieves her of her treasures and guides her to the sofa. "You didn't, did you? See one? I heard you up stairs. I'll never rent the place if it has a haunting." Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in pity as her face screws up and she excuses herself, mumbling about the tea needing to be made.

Molly doesn't answer. Her head is throbbing. She reclines on the sofa and closes her eyes. The static in her mind grows louder and she hears distant bits of past conversation, sees flashes of John's face and can almost feel the wind on her face as John had gotten on his knees before her. She was trying to connect that moment to this one and understand the gauntlet of ill-fated choices that had allowed her to be in this place. She doesn't want to move until this makes sense to her.

The tea is awful. Mrs. Hudson notices Molly trying not to make a face at the unexpected flavor and explains, "I put one of my herbal soothers in it. Thought you might be needing it. I know I do. You'll stay with me, have a bit of a rest and we'll get it all sorted in the morning."

As soon as she has drained her cup she leans back again. Mrs. Hudson is thankfully quiet. The herbal soothers have about the same kick as ten shots of John's whiskey and she can feel the world growing distant and muddled. She smiled softly, remembering how she and John had used his little glasses to play Wit's End and she'd felt almost exactly like this by the time he'd kissed her. Molly shifts onto her side as Mrs. Hudson drapes a crocheted throw over her. Molly closes her eyes and holds the cufflink so tightly it hurts the palm of her hand.

It's four in the morning when she pops awake. She didn't dream, probably thanks to the herbal soothers. Her mouth tastes bitter and she needs to use the lavatory. She stands and her phone is flashing that she has a text.

[I need to see you. Please come.]

She texts back, fingers shaking.

[Yes. Where?]

[The first place we met. Please come quickly.]

[On my way.]

Molly and Sherlock had not met at St. Bart's. They had met near Bart's off King Edward and Angel Street in Postman's park. She was taking a late lunch there in the covered gallery reading the rows of commemorative Doulton tablets. Sherlock was sleeping or she thought he was though she noticed he was shivering and seemed to be talking in his sleep. He spoke to her as she neared him and it startled her.

"They were all fools you know?" he said without opening his eyes

"Oh. I'm sorry. Were you speaking to me?" she asked nervously stepping back slightly.

He wore fine clothes, though he looked a bit rumpled and there was a tatter at his elbow. His hair was a mass of unkempt loose curls that stuck to his high forehead and obviously needed washed. His eyes open and he smiles at her. "Nobody else around, Dr. Hooper. So you will have to do."

"I'm sorry, do I know you? You know my name?" She twirls her hair nervously and tries to grasp any memory of where they could have met. She doesn't want to be rude, but she wasn't accustomed to being spoken to by strange, slightly homeless looking men who sleep on public benches.

He resumes his meditative state, eyes closed again as he speaks at the same pace as a Gatling gun. "It's on your lab coat. You work at Bart's. I came in with Detective Inspector Lestrade last week. He's not speaking to me now. I fell off the wagon. Being punished for rewarding myself for solving his stupid case for him. His wife is a tattle-tale. I know her secrets and she's afraid I will tell on her and the shop-keep she is bedding. She bullied him into kicking me out. So now it is either turn to my brother's mercy or crawl back to the Detective Inspector and pretend his wife doesn't make my skin creep. This is her third affair to date. Poor man is blind. Neither of those two options is suitable, not when I can work circles around them all. With a bit of help, that is. " He says all of this as almost a run on sentence, so fast she has to take a step forward to hear. He holds his hands under his chin as if praying and his face is placid as if he is chanting a meditation rather than gossip.

Molly doesn't follow most of what he just said, but she tries to remember which Detective Inspector is named Lestrade. She narrows it down to two possible people, but doesn't remember any young officer in either's company last week. She wonders if this wife got the man before her fired.

"Oh. I don't remember meeting you," she says carefully knowing she would have remembered that incredibly deep purr of a voice.

His eyes pop open and his head rolls toward her, his eyes change from grey to a sudden green and she is mesmerized by the way he sees her so intently, almost with a hint of insanity. Most eyes never lock to hers. Most eyes pass over her without noticing her. His eyes see her and she sucks in her breath as he begins to tell her things he had no way of knowing.

"We haven't met. You were working and I saw you. You work in the morgue and your boss is a git, and you let him push you around even though you are far smarter than he is. You're timid and like dead people because you don't have to socialize with them. You had the talent to be a surgeon, but not the confidence. Also, from your shoes I see you have migraines and must wear something that keeps your posture from having undue stress on your neck. They are special order, but you should change them more because you wear your left heel down faster than the rest of the shoe, could try tacking a nail head or two into the next new pair, will make them last longer and you'll suffer less for it if you can't afford a cobbler to attach a cleat. Doesn't cost that much, but you are frugal to a fault. Your skirt was your mother's and you wear it for sentimental reasons rather than fashion, which means you don't argue with her, could be she's amazing, but a daughter rebels against her mother's fashion choices unless…Oh, sorry for your loss. You have tiny burns on your hands, which means you worked in a chippy at some point, maybe to put yourself through University but more likely because you were too young to be doing it. They are old and there is growth on most of them, and you have only been out of Uni for three years tops, so this was a childhood job. Family business. Accent not from London, though you learned Received Pronunciation at some point, which means public school. Scholarship probably and you hated it, because you had never had time to interact with children your own age, probably stunted socially by the death of your mother, and the fact you took care of your father. It was just you and he against the wolves. Money was tight and you have never liked to spend it on yourself. Your father is quiet, so you are too, mix that with the teasing you received during your what, two years at some horrid posh girls boarding school? Must have been brilliant for them to offer you a tuition free education. Your father was so proud, wasn't he, and then he became ill and you cut your dreams short in order to take care of him, thus you stand before me a Pathologist rather than a surgeon. How is he doing?"

Molly stood with her mouth open then burst into tears. "He passed away, four weeks ago." She managed to say with some small amount of dignity. She sat down next to him and he watched her cry. He sat up and pulled his feet in toward his body, perching like a gargoyle watching a wedding, and rested his head on his knees and stared at her. He made no comment, nor any move to comfort her. She appreciated the fact he didn't give her any sympathy. People feeling sorry for her just made it harder to stop crying and she hated to cry in public. She got herself under control and looked down at the sandwich in her hand. "Sorry. Want half?" she offered.

He accepted and shoved a third of it in his mouth as if he were starving, then spoke before he was finished chewing. "I'm sorry. I'm socially awkward as well. Everyone hates me in fact. Had my own fun at Public school, though in my case it was Harrow and my brother had been athletic and liked. I was a disappointment."

"I was a bit of a disappointment too. Dad had told everyone I wanted to be a surgeon. He said working in the morgue was a creepy profession." She said taking a bite and chewing slowly.

"Well, I have lots of impressive scraps of paper and I'm a homeless junkie. At least this week. I win." He says with a smirk and popping the last of the sandwich in his mouth and helping himself to her fizzy water without asking.

Molly laughed. Sherlock could tell at once it was with him, not at him and he laughed too. Molly leaned her head back on the cool stone. He was right about the migraines. "Thank you for saying that. And for not being afraid of the creepy morgue girl. I like what I do. Probably weird, but, I think it's important. The dead talk to me in some ways. No, don't take that wrong. I don't hear them. I can see their lives on their faces. That's all. Some of them are beautiful, no matter how bad they look at that moment. Like these." She points up to the names on the wall behind her.

Her eyes opened and she adjusted the angle of her throbbing head, letting a new spot enjoy the cool stone to ease her pain. "They weren't fools. They were heroes. All of them would have been beautiful in death. They gave up their lives and their dreams for others. It's not foolish. It's the most lovely thing I could imagine. I'll never be loved like that again I suppose. My father gave up his great love for me. He left the sea and mourned her every day but didn't regret it. He could have shipped me off to school or some relative and hired my mother a nurse, but he sold his boat and came home for good. Mum said he was a hero and she was right. I may never find that kind of person to love me again, but I understand it. Lots of people think they love someone, but only a few ever really find out. That's who I lost, a bit over a month ago. My hero. I'm not afraid of the dead. I like meeting them, even if they can't tell their life stories with words. "

Sherlock studied her intently the whole time she spoke and she blushed under his scrutiny. "I like dead bodies too, " he blurted.

Molly cast a sideways glance at the man she was sharing her lunch with. He'd finished his and was eyeing her half. "There's crisps if you want them. But you like dead bodies… in what way? Not making them, I hope."

Sherlock reached into the bag and opened the crisps before speaking. "You would share your lunch with a serial killer? I look like a serial killer to you?"

Molly shrugged. "What do they look like? Maybe, they look like people who wear a bespoke suit with a tear in the sleeve and sleep on benches. I know their work, but I don't know what they look like."

"I know their work too. They are all different, puzzles, fascinating, brilliant and stupid. They all think they will get away with it. They all think they are smarter than everyone. But they aren't smarter than me. They murder people and I stop them. I solve their puzzles and follow all the details and it always leads me right to the solution. I love the clever ones as much as I want to make them stop the cleverness. There's the rub. I play the game and by winning, I lose. I have to wait for another clever opponent to randomly show up before I can play again. Oh, but there is nothing like the hunt. I live for it. Well sometimes, when the idiot system will let me. Right now I'm on the rough a bit, because my friend at Scotland Yard is being a selfish tosser. Won't let me in the crime lab."

"So, you're with Scotland Yard then?" She asks, knowing he's probably telling her a lie if he claims he is. Sleeping on a bench in his condition was too much even for an undercover detective. She wants to like him and has the urge to help him, but there isn't much to be done for someone who doesn't want help and he seemed to have burned his bridge with someone who had been trying.

"Consulting Detective. I just invented it. They don't call me that. Not yet anyway."

"What do they _call_ you?" Molly asks with a shy smile, deciding she likes this man with the fiery eyes and need to stop evil men. He'd passed one test, he hadn't lied.

"Junkie, on a good day, but mostly, Freak."

Her breath sucks in at the unexpected answer, and she looks genuinely angry. "That's horrible. People can be dreadful bores. You aren't a freak at all. But what I meant was, you know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Oh," He clears his throat and scratches his head nervously, "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes. That's nice. Nope, not the name of a serial killer, at all. They always have common names like John, Peter, William or Robert. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. It sounds very official, even if you did make it up. You'll need to get your jacket mended if you intend to look the part." She nods in approval.

Sherlock laughs and says, "From my name, you decided you're safe? Talking to a bloke half the police force in the city calls a sociopathic freak doesn't scare you? Because my name alleviates any fear of my being a member of the dismembering body-maker club? I see why you like this lot then," his head nods toward the wall. "You're like them. Brilliant, I see. But also spectacularly foolish." He had puffed up and glares at her in an intimidating way.

Molly wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "Are you sure you are safe? There have been a few females who did that sort of thing too. I could be wrong but I don't think you are. No, I didn't really decide just by your name. Your eyes. You have kind eyes."

Sherlock wilts as if crestfallen. He looks down and picks at his trousers. His voice is deep but quiet, "No one has ever said that to me before. Never."

Molly cocks her head and tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "Well, they are all fools then. Who cares what they think. Unless they happen to be smarter than you, they don't get to have an opinion that counts. I can tell you're smart. What did you read?"

"Chemistry and music," he says self-consciously.

"Wow. I tried to play the piano once. My teacher told my dad I was all thumbs and he shouldn't waste his money. I was heart-broken at the time." Molly holds out her hands and sighs.

"I could teach you. I mean I am much more adept with the violin, but I am adequate at the piano," Sherlock volunteers.

"That would be lovely, but I warn you, the teacher was probably right. I couldn't afford to pay you much," she says with hesitation.

"I don't need money. We could trade?" he asks with too much enthusiasm.

"Oh. Umm." Molly feels her throat closing and looks away, slightly offended.

He sighs, and shakes his head, "No. No, not what just crossed your mind. I mean, I need a lab. A real one. If you could sneak me into Bart's late at night, I could use one of the labs and then we could go up to the chapel and I could teach you to play the piano in exchange."

She is still shaking her head, not sure she wants to get involved and quite certain he has somehow planned this. He seems earnest, but Molly doesn't quite buy that he showed up here casually. "I could get in a lot of trouble."

He grins like a cat, "Yes, you could. Problem?"

She laughs and gathers up the rubbish from her lunch. He watches her intently and she has to concentrate to keep from giggling or acting stupid. She stands up and brushes the crumbs from her skirt. "I work the graveyard Thursday and Saturday. Come after two and it should be okay. We will see how it goes. If you get caught, I have never met you before and I have no problem stopping you from coming back if you cause me distress."

That had been nearly eight years ago. She wasn't very good at the piano, but she could play a few Christmas songs and happy birthday very adequately and if given some time to practice, she could plunk out an amateur version of a few classics. He wasn't the best or the most dependable teacher and she was a below average student, but somewhere along the line, he'd become her friend. She'd grown to love the awkward shy junkie and as his success had become more established, she'd seen less and less of the man she'd met in the park and more and more of the aloof coldly-obsessed Consulting Detective.

She was the first to call him a consulting detective, introducing him that way as if it were fact. Now he had this snobby way of bragging, 'the only one in the world' as if it were a credential that had been bestowed upon him by the queen, rather than something he'd made up once upon a time.

She had long ago figured out that as much as she felt his recreational drug use would lead him to ruin at some point, that it brought out a more open side of him she wished she could find when he was completely sober. Sometimes, she caught glimpses of him, but until he'd had to depend on her, or again wanted something, Sherlock was usually too distant and oblique to acknowledge more than a perfunctory acquaintance between them.

Molly had spent years dropping subtle hints that she would happily accept his advances if he would simply make one. But, having listened to him make fun of any girl who acted forward towards him, she didn't want to make the same error. Over time she'd let him get away with all sorts of atrocious behavior, and had developed a thick skin when he said things like her mouth was too small or her dandruff was caused by her cheap shampoo. He always told her the truth. In a way, that was a form of intimacy. He didn't mean to make her feel insulted. She'd seen him turn that sort of lethally vengeful scrutiny upon almost everyone who annoyed him.

With her, he never said things with the intention of cruelty, which didn't take the sting away from his comments, but she had learned to accept his scrutiny as flattery. Other people making fun of him only reinforced her protectiveness. She understood that what they said did hurt his feelings, though there was never a twitch of evidence it was true, unless he was buzzed.

He noticed everything, from her brand change of feminine products to her migraines she never complained about. Her hints didn't go unnoticed, simply unsung.

Over the years he'd done things for her unexpectedly. Sherlock would breeze into the morgue and drop off a box of herbal tea meant to prevent migraines. She sometimes found a box of chocolate, opened and two or three bitten or missing, with a note that he hated them and could she throw them away. One winter she'd sprained her ankle and every morning and afternoon for three weeks, a taxi waited at her door to take her to work. There would be another waiting when her shift was over. They were all paid for and the driver would not even accept a tip. Sherlock never admitted he'd arranged this, but he hadn't denied it either. He would text Molly that she needed to stay away from the tube for the next two weeks, hinting without saying that he knew of some reason it could put her in danger. Once she'd met Mycroft, she had a better idea of the source of his information.

Others never saw this side of him, so they judged her for what they viewed as a hopeless crush on the freak. Molly weathered their laughter and she had weathered their initial pity when he'd '_died_' but she didn't feel caring about him was a waste of time. She didn't feel used most of the time, because it wasn't one-sided. He gave in a different way, but she had always felt he enriched her life rather than encumbered it.

She had had to face facts when John came into the picture. She saw, finally, a plausible reason he'd never considered her date material. This theory had never been discussed and it didn't quite hold water after he'd had to identify a woman from parts that could have only been encountered in a much more intimate setting then friendship. She'd tried to ask once if a phone he was x-raying belonged to a girlfriend, but hadn't really gotten much of a definitive answer, other than something about games.

Eventually he had not needed her to sneak him in the lab. His reputation with Scotland Yard had gained him access. He had permission to come any time. He spent hours there now and everyone knew who he was as he swept in wearing his greatcoat and tight expensive suits. Molly found this unspoken divide between her class upbringing and his intimidating, but not Sherlock. Her colleagues cringed and headed for high ground when he appeared near the morgue.

People feared him, disliked him and had no clue why she seemed to be so infatuated with him. She got away with far more than she should have, simply because if they fired her for it, they would then have to deal with Sherlock Holmes. They backed her up on any lie she told, because there were rumors about his connections.

She had told a mortician that a body had to have the head disposed of by nuclear technicians, beings it was exuding radiation. That week, she met John alone for the first time. John threatened to report her if he found any more heads in his apartment. She had smiled at him and leaned in close and ask Dr. Watson if he'd thought that idea out all the way. "If you get me fired, what do you suppose he would do to obtain his playthings? I mean experiments."

John had turned red, then a little green and finally his face had gone white. Molly sipped the coffee John had bought her and suddenly she'd giggled. John tried really hard not to laugh too, but they both got the joke and the image of the multitude of awful ways that Sherlock might resupply if she were not there to help him in his times of boredom.

If Sherlock were just using her, he could have stopped speaking to her at this point. Oh there was no doubt he did use her, but that wasn't the whole story. It had never been the whole story.

This night, he needed her and all he ever had to do was ask. She, like John, would kill to protect him. No matter what, she would always, be on his side.

She pays the taxi and waits. The gates are closed to the park. She stands in the shadows and looks around. A figure lofting over the fence at her, didn't startle her at all. She was used to Sherlock's dramatic entrances. She moved in his direction and they both paused to study each other for a split second. Molly and Sherlock both seemed to lose motor function and they ended up lurching the last four steps toward the other and embracing. They clung desperately to the other, like two shipwrecked lovers finding themselves the only survivors to wash up on an atoll. Molly hid her face and pressed her forehead to his chest as he buried his nose in her hair.

"I thought he was with you?" she whispers, because her throat feels like it has razor shards of glass grinding into her vocal cords. It is a question, an accusation and she's also pleading for him to tell her that John is safe.

She had never heard him weep like this, not even after he jumped off the roof. That had been a lousy day as he had realized that even if he had survived, he'd lost his entire life. His past was dead, and the life he'd built and took for granted was now all in the past. This is far worse. This, it is a terrible sound. It is a dry sizzle, like he is coming apart as if sorrow were scorching and blistering him from the inside. It's the sound made by a lorry tyre spewing its air or Sherlock Holmes ejecting gasps of his sanity, "Why? He loved you. Why tell him? Why didn't he come back to you? Why did he do …that?"

"I don't know," she murmurs back. She is holding everything she feels inside but she is shaking with the force of the battle. She wants to be strong for him and she knows Sherlock must need her comfort right now, but nothing can stop the kind of artillery she and he have just endured. They hold each other and take comfort that neither is alone in this empty world in which John Watson doesn't breath.

She has no idea how much time passes but he suddenly looks around fully alert and he grabs her hand and begins leading her down mews and through pass-ways. She is lost and exhausted by this sudden burst of exercise. Jolted, afraid and unable to run any further, she is wheezing by the time he shoves her through a doorway into total darkness.

Molly holds her arms out, blindly waiting in the choking darkness. She can smell something tainted with some fluid that belongs to motorcars and something that may be petrol, but she can't see anything and the only noise comes from him. She assumes he is fumbling for light and patiently waits in place trying to force her eyes to adjust by blinking rapidly which is as useful as hitting the button to the lift when it is already lit up. She can't see anything and has no idea how he's negotiating around in this total lack of luminance. It reminded her of a cave.

Out of the darkness, Sherlock's mouth closed over hers and she pulled back startled. More needy than cautious, he clamped her body against him as if he were preparing to take her right there on the filthy floor, in the dark. A harsh, low growl escaped him and Molly's skin prickled with gooseflesh.


	27. Chapter 27 - 4 - In the Dark

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Molly felt like she was under water, her reactions were mumbled and not her own. She didn't protest against Sherlock's mouth consuming her. John is dead. Their John is dead. In the darkness, Molly felt safe and nothing else felt quite tangible to her. His lips were the only reality and everything else is distant. In her mind, even time has stopped. She met his hunger and wilted to sensation.

She is guided backwards and her mind is not sure if she is falling but she feels a ledge and he pushed her, urging her to move backwards and then lifted her and she did fall onto something that felt like a bare mattress. He moved on top of her and her shirt was up and her eyes still can't find a crack of light to focus her vision. Her eyes closed and the dark didn't matter because her sight stopped fighting for a pinpoint of radiance.

By touch alone she has removed his shirt and he still hasn't said a word. Her cloths were flying piece by piece into the darkness and his followed. She opened to him and he nestled to her, hard and needful.

"Please. I need a light. I want to see you," she whispered and it sounded louder than she'd meant it to.

"No light. Pretend I'm him," he said softly, "You don't want me, but I need you. Please, Molly."

"Wait, no. I want to see you. You're not him. Don't do that to me." She pressed her fingers to his chest backing up her words.

Molly heard the sigh and there was some fumbling. Suddenly there was a tiny square of brilliance and Sherlock looked blue. "Better?" His phone screen provided the only luminance.

"Yes. Better," she said, paying no attention to the surroundings, only looking in his blood-shot, black-streaked in this strange light, eyes. "Slow down."

He nodded. "Molly? Even in the light?"

"Of course. Yes. God, yes," she said with a tender smile and a nod.

He growled again and with enough force to move her six inches, he impaled her on his flesh. She cried out in surprise and a little pain, but this unquenched desire she's had forever is swiftly washed in grief and urgency. Molly wrapped her legs around him and encouraged his manic lust. It was not gentle or sweet or a fantasy. Instead it was greedy and nearly silent and edges on violence, yet the thought of him for so many years brought her to the brink and she doesn't fight it. She smiled and then she stopped breathing and closed her eyes, shuddering beneath him, and when she finally breathes it came out with an animalistic energy she can't contain.

Sherlock was set off by her sounds. He holds still, quaking and twitching and his eyes are wide and unfocused as finally a single sigh escaped him and he collapsed on top of her. This has taken less than five minutes and she is exhausted from the power of it.

He quaked in a different way and his voice was broken and rasping in rhythm to the convulsions in his abdomen, "God, what did I do?"

Molly froze. If he started saying he regretted this while he's still… she's going to punch him in the face.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear I sent him back to you," Sherlock said.

"Oh." She reached up and cradled his head and he slid to the side and rolled on his back. His face turned red. Molly leaned over and kissed him, little pecks of comfort on eyelids, cheeks and temples.

The phone screen goes black and as Molly fumbles for it, to light it up again, there is a scream. Technically she knows it could have only come from Sherlock, but it sounded like a soul ripping from flesh.

"Sherlock. Oh God, don't go crazy in the… the dark." She grasp for the button that will again light up the phone screen. Molly can't seem to find the correct button and worries that it is dead.

"Leave it. The dark is better," Sherlock said in his normal voice, now as starling as the scream. "We need to talk and I think the dark is better. Need to hear what you have to say, no deducing. Just your words."

"Ok. You are done screaming right, because that almost gave me a heart attack," she said carefully.

"Yes. Now, tell me why. You told him. After all I said to you. You told him."

She rolls back over and her head sinks to his chest. "I lied to you. I didn't mean to, but I didn't want to believe it at first either. But every day, I knew he was worse than I wanted to pretend. I did try to tell you, and when I was away, I didn't trust myself to see. I didn't know how to tell you. He wasn't well, Sherlock. He was a long way from it. I was trying to put plasters on stab wounds. He was bleeding out that night. I was fooling myself. I don't know what it was about the violin. But he was worse than I'd ever seen him, and I have seen some bad things."

"Then it was my fault. You should have told me all of it. You took on things I never asked you to do. You told me bits, but not the entire picture. I should have paid attention. I almost hated him. I was so mad at him. He pulled a gun on you." His chest heaves under her head.

"Yeah, it was unloaded," she tells him quickly.

"Did you know that?"

"No. Not at that moment. I told him, because I could see his mind working and it was not going to figure out anything that would end well. He was so distant. I thought it would help. He did scare me but the gun was not loaded. I wasn't in any real danger. I didn't know he had the clip in his pocket."

"Then it wasn't unloaded. Physically it was, but not in your mind. I have seen him kill. Molly, I should never have asked this of you. I should have done so many things differently. You have lost something. I ruined you, but I knew that long ago. I am always right." His hands roam up to her neck and he blindly caresses her cheek.

Molly is unsure what to say and whispered,"I did it for me. I loved him. I loved him too much…to face that he was being so honest about it. He made jokes about it. Killing himself...I get what he meant now, but it wasn't real when he said those things. I was afraid at first, but I really, sort of, got used to it or something. He told me this would happen, that first time you asked me to go over there. I wanted to change that. I thought I could love him enough to keep him alive. "

"Me too," Sherlock whispered back.

"I know," she soothed.

"But he didn't…know. He'll never know that I felt that for him. I said it, but not like he did. Not letting him see it. I lied to him. I wanted him to be safe. He kissed me and told me he loved me. I rejected him. It killed him. He could live with me dead, but not with knowing I did it all on purpose. We are both to blame here. I sent him away and I killed my John. We killed him. We murdered him. It didn't have to be. You shouldn't have told him. That was the moment you betrayed me."

Molly cleared her throat, "He was so happy. He wanted to go. It would have been better. Why didn't you just take him with you? What happened between you?"

"Did you see what was texted back and forth?"

"Some of it."

"I… have never been so angry with him. He threatened you, to draw me out. It was so much like standing on that roof, with no choice. I told him he wasn't necessary to me. I told him he was a fool to leave you when I could never love him like you do."

"Sherlock. That was an awful thing…"

"No. It's true. You care. You always care. I'm not like you. I am broken and I use people. Using people isn't the same. All this time, I knew how you felt…and I used it." His voice is slow and peaceful, as if he's accepted that he is some sort of monster.

"And you cared. I know you do." She moved her head, nuzzling him.

"Not like you deserve. Not like he deserved. I left him there, on the floor. I slipped away, and I kissed him...but he didn't know. I hurt everything that cares for me. I always have. I ruin everyone. It's what I do. I took you and I made you a liar, and a sneaky, cunning thing full of desperation and deceit. "

"But, you don't understand. I could have stopped. Sherlock, don't you get the big picture? I could have just, moved on. I tried a few times, you know? " She punctuates her words with a kiss on his chest.

"Why didn't you. Why did you care? I have nothing to give anyone and most people see that at once. You never stopped. From that first day, you never made fun of me. You slowly sunk to my moral cesspit and now you have lost. Everything you were is gone. " He rolls slightly; she can feel his breath on her face and him stirring again against her thigh.

"Because at the time, nobody else loved you. Greg cared, but you didn't really have anyone else. You hadn't moved to Baker Street yet. You had a thousand acquaintances from the Queen herself to Stinky-Sam living in the sewers, but nobody…loved you. It broke my heart."

"It didn't bother me. I didn't care," he said without inflection.

Molly shook her head even though he couldn't see her. "That's not true. The first time we met, you told me everyone hated you. You wouldn't have admitted that if you hadn't noticed it. You wouldn't have noticed it if it didn't bother you. I loved you. All these years later, I still do. Until you met John and Miss Adler, I wasn't sure you could love. But that didn't matter. You were still worth loving."

"I was a junkie. Still am. If we are being truthful. You are an idiot, to love something like me. I've never given you anything but hurt feelings and trouble. Though I have obviously rubbed off on you in some small way. That is not a complimentary statement. You betrayed me. I don't suppose it matters much which one of us actually affected him in the end. He died because we both pulled his last triggers. He is dead and we killed him." He doesn't let her argue, but kissed her again.

This time, it was slow and languid. Sherlock's hands were gentle to the point of reticence. Molly doesn't mind, she lets him set the pace and in this pure cloak of night, adored him. Her fingertips memorized his form and her tongue tasted his skin. The world is beyond this ebony wall of mutual grief, pushed away for this moment and as blind as her eyes are this second. Nothing matters out there right now. She was entombed with sensation, and they found their dark joy, a tiny reprieve from the gloom of regret.

They don't sleep afterward, but each dozes with their own thoughts for a time. It was warm against him though the chill of air swirls around them, trying to escort them into compliant wakefulness.

"What is this place?" Molly asked, finally admitting the cold air has beaten her will to sleep.

"Nothing but an old bolt-hole of mine. This delivery truck and I are old friends. I keep it here. Have for years. Comes in handy from time to time. Great place to shoot up. Never brought anyone here. It was my secret of last resort. I am giving you a key to this place, just in case you ever need it. I leave London in a few hours. I will never come back. This is goodbye."

"No. You said that before." Molly squeezed his hand and pressed it to her lips.

"I meant it then too, but I should have just gone. None of this would have happened if I had done what I intended. I was delayed," he muttered the last part seductively then his lips brush her temple and ear.

"I think you should tell me all of it. I know you haven't. I deserve the truth. You said more than you told me. What happened to John?" Molly scooted closer to him turning to face him, even though she can't see his expression.

"Yes, I did. But I think we both played our part in it, don't you? Now it's time for us to pay the price. Keep your wits, my dear. You will need them. "

"What do you mean?"

"I am off to pay for my sins." He said and without preamble sits up and somehow began dressing.

She felt the delivery van move to his weight suddenly being absent and unexpectedly there is light all around. She looked around, confused and he was buttoning his trousers. He was smiling but it isn't the smile of a man who just had a shag. Sherlock looks at her as if he could kill her and anyone else who he felt like playing with. He had the same look of pure surety and truth as Jim carried in his eyes. The clarity of a serial killer, she'd heard Sherlock call it.

"What sins? Tell me, Sherlock. What happened. I can see you were in a fight. Was it with John?"

He grins aloofly. "You saved me and then betrayed me. I am doing that as well. You are a mirror. I am betraying you but giving you a small escape." He rattled the keys in his hand and holds them out to her. "The van won't run, without some mechanical intervention. Battery is dead, tyres are flat. The petrol has probably tarred up the carburetor. Don't count on her to get you anywhere, but close the doors and light a candle and she's a warm enough place to sleep. You might bring a quilt or two and some food. You can survive here for weeks and it will drive Mycroft insane. If you are careful."

"I don't understand? What do you mean when you said that you're betraying me? What are you talking about?" Her eyes squint against the harsh light and her hand shielded her eyes from the abrupt glare.

"I mean, you are my flash-bang. Mycroft will think you did it on purpose. He will focus on the wrong thing in his rage and miss the important parts. Beware of my brother. I am giving you a fighting chance. Here is a bolt hole, and now for the betrayal. I love you too, but we killed John Watson together and the crime won't go unpunished. I'm sorry Molly. Mycroft has to be kept out of this, this time. I know what he will try to do to you. I insured it. How you handle it is up to you, but I have faith that you will keep him well entertained for me."

Molly hasn't even thought to scramble for clothing. She stares at him as if she's gone deaf and mute. "You…I…" is all she squeezes out.

His eyes blazed and he grinned at her expectantly. His rapid movement stopped once he shrugged his rumpled blazer on. "You should stop caring about me. Caring was never an advantage. I don't know if you can out fox my brother for long. It doesn't matter. It's the price of betraying me. This place, he's never found it. It gives you a sporting chance. I leave you to whatever fate you make for yourself."

He tosses the keys at her. "I know about you and Jim. I've always known. I knew about John too. You lied to me. You knew it would hurt me and took him to your bed anyway. I tried not to hate you for it. I told myself fairytales. Caring about you blinded me. I will always care, but love and hate grow on the same stem, Molly. Love is a game for fools and I knew better, but it is the same as being a junky, isn't it? It stops feeling good and becomes a burden. It makes us crave and scurry around to keep it. When it stops there are no cures because your brain has rewired. It becomes everything. You gave me everything and then snatched it away. John and Molly loved Sherlock. You can love dangerous things. You always do. But, dangerous things are dangerous. You can love an Adder. Snakes are beautiful creatures, but they still are capable of biting the hand that snatches them to safety from a fall. Hard lesson, but a valuable one."

"You're teaching me a lesson? You blame me?" She can't fathom how this encounter has changed so quickly. "You want to punish me, for John's death? Jesus, you have to be kidding me here. Don't be a coward, Sherlock. I won't play this kind of game. I won't. You made me wait all this time. And the reasons were horrible, but we were here…and…what was this? What did you think we were doing here?"

"I would have stopped if you had asked me too. Call it my last gasp of sentiment. I always wondered. Jim knew your face and I only imagined. I saw it when you were with John. Call it jealousy. Call it whatever you have to, to make yourself understand that I have the ability to destroy everything I touch. This, me handing you a place to hide, is sentiment. I am handing you a bit of time, nothing more. Mycroft will be hunting you and that works in my favor. What my brother will do to you if you don't wish to play, well that…Molly Hooper. That? Is justice."

"Sherlock, you are not making any sense at all. I haven't done anything but try to be your friend. He knows that. Mycroft will not just forget about finding you and go off on some goose chase seeking revenge. I don't matter, " Molly explains urgently, trying to figure out what has gone wrong in this exchange. She can't grasp how he has made these decisions much less what he hopes to gain. Mycroft is angry with her, but she will simply explain that Sherlock has set this up hoping to distract his brother and it will accomplish nothing.

"Oh, yes. You will reason with him? At this time, I'm afraid your status has changed. My brother has few weaknesses, few faults. He makes his living by never being vulnerable to his enemies. The thing is, I know things that others are not privy to. I know how to make even my brother…dance," He said and then smiled with a gleeful malevolence.

Molly is uncertain what to say. Her head shakes and her hands bring wadded clothing to her chest in a useless gesture to shield herself from his gaze. "You can't be angry at John for threatening me and turn around and set me up to be destroyed, maybe tortured by your own brother. That's crazy, Sherlock. You just need to calm down and we can –"

Sherlock's voice is thunderous and his face twists into rage, " John loved us and we failed him. We failed him and I will see that his death serves a purpose. He died for nothing. Do you understand? Nothing. Nothing but our failure! We failed him. You failed him. I failed him. And I swear on my worthless soul that the world will burn for it. I will burn for it. Mycroft, you, everyone will burn, who failed John Watson. He was better than us all."

Molly's eyes are wide and fearful. She has never seen Sherlock act like this. Her own voice is soft and timidly gentle, "So burning the world is what you think he would want? You think it is some sort of justice, for John?"

Sherlock laughs in exasperation. He takes several deep breaths and calms himself as if she had almost fooled him. He paces then stops and picks something up off the floor, examines it and stuffs it in his pocket. He steps back to the van and his face is amused and haughty again.

His chin lifts and he speaks in his superior purr of taunting snobbery, " You don't need to instruct me on justice, Molly. Justice is a roll of the dice at best. There is no justice. You and I, are guilty. Now roll your dice and I am off to roll mine. Farewell, Dr. Hooper." From his pocket he draws two small green dice and shakes them in his fist. "Seven come eleven." He rolled them and smirks. "Snake eyes. Now, I think we can say, we are done shooting the crap." He said with feigned disappointment.

"Sherlock. Wait. Please. Sherlock!" she screamed as he turned his back and walked out the door. It closed with a slam of finality.

Molly sat in total shock. It all hit her and she flung herself backward on the mattress and wailed like a soul was ripping from her flesh.

She looked around and shook her head at how perfectly horrible this had become. "Oh, John. John, what happened? I don't even know what happened!" She shrieked to the empty garage.

* * *

**I do know that you are probably confused. The next chapter will be up quickly, shedding light on some of the mess. The rat was our hint from the great ones – now it is my hint to you. We are about to meet a very interesting Rat.**


	28. Chapter 28 - 5 - Rat

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Twenty-eight hours earlier…

John hadn't meant to reveal himself to Molly like he did, but he had meant what he said. He loved Molly and even as he pulled away from her, he knew he wanted to go back to her as soon as possible. He couldn't quite reconcile how that would work with Sherlock, but he would figure it out when the time came. He trotted behind the man he'd bullied into seeing him. The precious violin is now tucked under a new version of the greatcoat.

John had caught up to him, just as it began to rain in earnest and Sherlock had said all he needed to hear, "Follow me," before he turned and jogged off.

John was helpless to do more than run. He can't speak. He follows a ghost made flesh and it called him so deeply he can do little else but match the long strides with his own shorter ones. He doesn't care where he's leading; only that Sherlock is real, and John is gloriously getting to run in the rain and the dark with the feeling of hope in tomorrow. Sherlock was racing ahead, not looking back and John ran one step behind, just where he belonged.

By the time they stopped, John was sucking wind, having lost some stamina in the last year. Finally, they are on the other side of Regent's Park and Sherlock turned down a short mews and stepped up to a blue door, unlatching it without a key and held it open for John to follow. They took a moment to catch their breath and leaned against the wall, laughing at the absurdity of having to take such precautions.

It felt nostalgic to John and all his anger melted as their breath drops from gasping to merely winded. Sherlock carefully dried the violin and tucked it into the case standing open on a bench facing a tiny fireplace.

John sighed in relief. "Sherlock. God. What the bloody hell were you—"

He hadn't expected to be in a fist fight and he never saw the blow coming. He clutches his nose painfully and curses under his breath. Standing there holding his nose, John looked at Sherlock like a puppy whose tail has been trod upon.

"That was for scaring Molly," Sherlock railed at him. " I don't quite know how you deduced the truth, but threatening her was unforgivable!" He hits John again, this time knocking him down. "That was for being such a prat and worrying me with your moping." He hits the stunned John again as he struggles up from the floor. "And that was for … leaving her to follow me."

John was angry now and he crouches into a low, tackle position. Bloody nose and eyes wild, he anticipates Sherlock's quick sidestep and his head dead-centered Sherlock's chest; the two of them tumbled into a jumble of flailing limbs, grumbling and wrestling. John comes out on top and returns the joy.

"That is for leaving me to go be dead. And this…is for leaving me…making me watch you die. Making me your bloody witness, 'Stay right there, John!' And this…is for you leaving to go be dead.. dead! You. Egotistical…Bastard!" he said wailing on Sherlock's face, teeth and nose be damned and still receiving the odd blow in return. The blows are painful, to be sure, but John isn't putting any power into the jabs.

Neither was willing to end the battle as a draw or give in to the other and yet, John, capable of dispatching Sherlock and several others never does any definitive damage to Sherlock whilst Sherlock employs none of his own lethal dirty tricks on John. The scuffle, filled with much grunting and name calling far beneath either man's station in the world, does not lead to any decided victory nor permanent injury, but there is an accumulated toll as time slips and a graceful exit for either party has past.

Then, both worn out, abruptly making eye contact accidentally, they both began laughing again. John's laughter turned to tears. He can't help that even in this half embarrassing position, straddling Sherlock and both unkempt and rough looking with swelling eyes and trickles of blood mixing in the tears of happiness, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on to him as tightly as he'd strained to keep his sanity all these months.

Sherlock returned the gesture and the two men cleave to each other but said nothing.

Finally John rolled off and wipes his eyes. They lie side by side, on the bare soiled floorboards, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock explained. John listened. Then Sherlock explained why John can't join him and why he must forget their association and John rested in silence as his heart hammered in his chest.

"Please don't leave me," John whispered.

Sherlock sighed deeply, but he sounded of more regret than resolve, "I have no choice. You can't go…I explained it—"

"I'm going with you, Sherlock, and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it. I assure you. If you know anything …at all…about me. You know-" John banged the floor with his fist and sat up, glaring at Sherlock.

"You shan't go. That is final. I'm sorry." Sherlock said sitting cross-legged and leaning up against the tiny bed, still made, in this hourly rental room.

"You don't get to decide." John replied.

"Actually, I believe I do." Sherlock's head turned toward John and he's annoyed to have to keep going through this with him.

"You need me," his voice is firm, but John's eyes pleaded as he used the corner of his shirt to dab at some blood on his brow.

"I don't," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"I need you." John said, trying to smile and say more with his eyes. He crossed his arms and used his most stern glare.

Sherlock looks away, pointedly ignoring John's gaze. "Not my problem."

"What?" John stands abruptly, and stared down at his friend. "Not your problem?"

Sherlock looks up at him, pulling his knees close. He narrows his eyes and says firmly, "You have forgotten who I am, John. You have aggrandized me in your mind since my death. Now you see me as I am, as I have been all along and it disappoints you. I always did, if you were honest. You need to go back to Molly. She can love you as I cannot. The best I can offer you is wasting my mind trying to calculate all the permutations of not hurting your absurd little feelings every five seconds. It's the best I can do. You know that. Frankly, I cannot spare the mental space or energy for your inconsequential human emotions. Protecting you and dealing with your constant disappointments isn't worth it," Sherlock said with his hands steepled under his chin as if he were in his chair in their Baker Street flat.

"Stop this. When have you _ever_ worried about my feelings? That is a load of rubbish and you know it," John said, using his finger to gesture at Sherlock.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"What about now? It's all over your face, John. I am doing it right now, just by trying to not hurt your feelings. By doing what is best, even if you're too thick to see it. Christ, what does it matter? You are not coming, because I do better without you. I can hide longer, not worried about your little tummy growling. I can think better and if I feel like a cigarette or anything else, I don't have to faff around asking your damned permission. I don't need a father, John. He died years ago and I wasn't shopping for a new one. Besides, Mycroft thinks it's his job by default and would be jealous. I don't need you, so that ends the argument. Now, if you have half a brain in your head you will turn around and walk out of here. Go be dull and breed with Molly and raise a passel of boring thoughtless creatures that will not visit on Christmas and will only ring you up when they need bail or tuition. This is why I didn't tell you. This is why I choose not to take you with me."

John stood there breathing deeply as his only display of his fury. He is silent. He blinks and shakes his head. John leaned over awkwardly. That won't work and he puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He drops to one knee then brings the other down and kneels in front of Sherlock.

He kissed Sherlock softly, sweetly and almost with reverence, on the lips. He pulls back then looks him sincerely in the eye. His voice was calm and measured, not giving away the fear that sparkled in his eyes, "I love you. I love you. Please don't. Just. Don't. I have to go. No matter what you say, I can't do this anymore. I have to go with you. It is my job to keep you safe. It's my job, Sherlock. My only job. Don't take that from me. I won't complain. I won't demand another thing from you. Just let me…please…let me be by your side. I'd go anywhere with you. I love you."

Sherlock looks up at him and shakes his head. "Married to my work. Marry the girl you threatened to kill, if she will still have you. I'll be leaving London alone."

John recoiled. He stands up quickly. "Fine. That's fine. You go off and get yourself killed. I'll be on your welcoming committee. Because the only way you walk out of here without me, is over my dead body. Do that and I will believe you. Other than that, I was letting you know that we were going together, the asking bit was just to be polite." His head wobbled with a jaunty determination as if to dare Sherlock to try anything. He was angry, but John was never one to give up very easily.

"Oh, God. And you call me dramatic. I'm not killing you." Sherlock stands and brushes off some of the dust they acquired rolling around on the floor in wet clothes. It turns to a smear of mud mostly, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the futility of his actions.

"Good. That's what I thought." John smirks. His shoulders dropped slightly in relief.

"Here, let me dust off your back, you idiot." Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. He begins dusting John's clothing off with determined swipes and moves around behind him.

"You were bluffing. I knew that, you know. I know that you…" John was startled by the arm that slid around his throat, but he offered little resistance as his head was forced forward in a traditional sleeper hold.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said and clamped down.

John kicked and thrashed and tugged on the arm, finally forcing a strained, "You better kill me, Sherlock. I'm not kidding…" His face turned a brilliant, atrocious shade of red and he tried to tuck his chin and get out of the hold. He stomped Sherlock's arch hard enough to break several bones in his attacker's right foot, then John began to drool and he was dead weight in Sherlock's arms.

He awakens, choking and wheezing, lying on the floor of this strange room with an enormously fat and bald middle-aged man standing over him poking at him with a cane. "I won't 'ave no drunks in here. You wanna sleep, you gotta pay. Times up. Your friend turned in his key, so you 'ave to go. Got people in at six and got to clean up this mess. "

John scrabbled around disoriented and groggy. He leapt to his feet when he saw the violin case was gone. He flung open the door and screamed, "Sherlock? Sherlock?" He took off into the rain and ran less than a block before he realized he has no hope of finding him. He stands there at the end of the mews, looking up and down the street, and his shoulders slumped. The picture of dejection, John doesn't know what to do with himself. He just stood there in the rain and closed his eyes.

He shook his head. He stands still and waits for one movement that would at least offer a clue to what direction he should walk. He studied the shadows carefully, waiting for any dark form to move and give away the location of someone watching him. The rain pounded but John ignored it, his eyes darting and his body still.

His phone beeped. He had a text message. He looked at it at once, assuming it's Sherlock, but the message is from another source of heartbreak. It's from one of his old army mates. It isn't clear exactly which one, but he recognized it's meaning at once. He read it over again and sighed.

Blocked Number - [Rhino - Bow rd MOOU FERODO Mighty Bite. Animal rescue.]

John forgot his worries about Sherlock. A friend was in trouble and has asked for his help. He smiled painfully and nodded. It was very good timing. Whatever the problem, he needed to feel useful and someone from his past still remembered that not so long ago, he'd been a very useful man. It was a sign that maybe he just made a fool of himself, but not everyone he ever knew considered him to be a fool.

There were only seven people on earth who would ever refer to him as the Sumatra Rhino. He looked at his watch, it was just half past two and the Tube was closed. He had to walk three blocks before he found a taxi. He was let off at Bow Road Station, and walked east, searching for the rendezvous location. He curses that he handed his weapon to Molly.

John finds the words 'IRATE MUNCH FERODO' on an overpass train track. He looked around and to his left saw a police station and wondered if someone needed bail. He shook his head and walked under the trestle and spotted a royal blue sandwich shop called 'Mighty Bite'. He crossed the street with a grin and peeks through the one inch metal grate but the interior is only lit by a Pepsi machine. The shop was empty.

Next door, The Little Driver is closed but still has a customer or two straggling out the door drunkenly. Beyond that the Texaco petrol station had business. The lights were glaring in the night and it seemed like a welcoming sight in this rain that feels like ice. The temperature was still falling and John is shaking in misery. The day was warm, but now full blown autumn seems determined to cut across London in one night. The trees are giving up their leaves quickly in the rain and wind. John turned around and slowly surveyed the area.

His eyes again fall on the train overpass and from this direction, facing west, he found his 'MOOU FERODO'. He walks into the arched pedestrian pass through and uses it as shelter against the rain. He leans his back up against the dry brick and watches in both directions from the darkness. It doesn't take long. From the lights bleeding from Texaco he spots a tall man in a long dark coat with short clipped grey hair and two coffees balanced in one hand.

John kicks off the bricks and stands respectfully at attention, waiting for the man to acknowledge him. The man cocks his head slightly. "Never could stay out of trouble, Rhino. Hope I didn't interrupt your fun. You salute me, boy, and you'll be wearing this coffee. Here. Black, scalding and old as road tar, just how you like it. Knew you'd be along any minute," the older man says in an impossibly deep baritone, with a gruff cultured inflection.

John relaxed and nodded, accepting the hot beverage and doing a quick survey of his friend and former commanding officer. "Hello, Rat. Been a while."

The man looked at him quickly from toe to head. He shook his head and his eyes darted through the night, watchful and under stress, but masking it as disgust, "So, got yourself shot. Thought I taught you better than that. Can't leave you alone for five minutes."

John clears his throat twice before speaking. "It's what soldiers do. We get shot. Left for dead sometimes. You said you would never set foot in London again. Must be important."

"I always liked that about you. No need to stand on ceremony, just bloody the knuckles right away. That looks fresh by the way," the man said, looking at john's hand, obviously amused.

A shiver of familiarity zings John's spine and he sipped the scalding tar, wincing in pleasure. "It is fresh. This coffee on the other hand was probably what killed the dinosaurs. God it tastes good. Ta. So, what have we got? You called. Here I am. What could possibly be so important that 'The Giant Rat of Sumatra' could break his own rules and request a meeting a half-click from a London police station?"

"It seems my babies have been fishing and they got snagged in a rather large drag net. You can start by explaining your association with Sherlock Holmes and clarify to me why he pretended to be dead to keep you alive?" The Rat said with pleasant concern as if inquiring about John's favorite restaurant.

"How could you possibly…"

"Rhino. I'm injured. You have hurt my feelings. You have forgotten me, haven't you?" he cuts in as if scolding a small child.

"Feelings?" John chirps with a staccato laugh. "I have been reliably informed you don't have any, Rat, old pal."

The Rat shrugs, "I'm also an artful liar. Tell me, how did you become rather publicly associated with Sherlock Holmes? " he asked with a wink, a scathing twitch of his lips and pointed twist of his head.

John's eyes narrowed and he tilts his head searching the slate-coloured unfeeling eyes in the darkness. "Why is it any concern of yours?"

The Rat smiles slightly, it is lopsided and painfully familiar. He paces back and forth in the dry area provided by the trestle above. His coat swishes with every step and John is fascinated with the changing, aging lines of him. He's still beautiful, if slightly faded from the last few years. "Because I'd like to think we could get past our little fling and be of use to each other again. I need your help. It's personal. It's complicated and it's probably going to get us both killed in the end. My advice would be to walk away and tell me to sod off, but I could use some help. I'm getting old and still playing a young man's game. It would be like old times. Except, without the backing of any tanks, aircraft or other conscripted warm bodies to fetch us coffee. It's going to be pure hell."

John grins broadly and his eyes soften, "I'm in."

The other man spins and shakes his head. "Just like that? Jesus, you should be sectioned. You know that, don't you?"

John swallows and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Well, been planning a lead dinner for a year now, and I'm a bit hungry."

"Oh John, what did he do to you?" he sighs his disapproval.

John laughs but it isn't mirthful, instead it borders on bitter. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."

The tall man blinks then looks away. "I suppose that's true. We don't have a lot of time. Come with me, we have some curtains to draw. This place is crawling with cameras. Damn the British government and its entire little toad stool brigade."

"Yeah, CCTV. I feel so safe and happy, wish they would wipe my arse for me too. I hear from a trustworthy source that that is actually in the works. I can't wait for the wonders of such assistance. I actually know the British government, by the way. Had coffee with him last month."

His friend snorts, "Mycroft. I'd call him a bastard but I happen to know his parents were, in fact, married at the time of his conception. Can you still swim?"

"Why would I need to swim?" John asks, dropping his empty coffee cup in the rubbish bin. "You think the great flood is coming? How long has it been since you were here?" John holds his hand out into the streaming downpour. "This is just a little sprinkle. And I expect a full account of how you know Mycroft and Sherlock. That should be the highlight of my day."

"Well, I am about to arrange for your death, and if you can't swim, that might go badly. And we have bigger concerns right now than your boyfriend troubles. How long has it been since you laid eyes on Tiger?" The dry tone is normal and John takes no offence at not having a clue what the man's plans are.

"A long time. Since his discharge in fact. Why? Is he coming, too?" John inquires.

"He's been here a long time, Rhino. And he isn't on our side. Which is why you are about to very publicly commit suicide by jumping in the Thames. We need to do something spectacular to get you out of all this. So, first things first, then we are off to Switzerland. We can mollycock our mutual sorrows on the way."

"Wait. I'm going to what? Exactly?" John shifts his weight and stares at his former commanding officer and friend.

The Rat grins and winks. "Come on. We are heading to Baker Street. Going to go make use of that maudlin sissy note you've been composing. May as well let the last year of your pathetic life serve our purpose. Don't bring anything, you won't be needing it for a while. Still in?"

John considers it for a heartbeat then with a deep cleansing breath, "Going deep? All or nothing, huh? Like you?"

The man nods. "What it amounts to. Can't come back from dead you know. I know it's a lot to ask."

"It's fine, Ford. It's all fine. Cab?" John rushes out into the rain waving his arms and trying to get the driver to notice him.

The Rat raises his arm and the taxi pulls right in next to him without hesitation. He grins and holds the door open to an irritated John. "It's a gift."

"Go to bloody hell. Sir." John mumbles as he steps into the warmth of the dry cab and takes his seat.


	29. Chapter 29 - 6 -The Science of Apples

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The cab ride was quiet. The driver drove with such exaggerated care that he seemed like an old woman. John spoke in hushed tones of how he met Sherlock and what they did. He was pretty sure he wasn't conveying any new information but his friend listened intently. John spoke of Sherlock's personality and how until a few hours ago, he thought he'd died for him. He admitted that he'd somehow fallen in love with the man. He told him briefly of Molly and in general what a complete shambles his life had turned into.

He seemed to be discarding a lot of the tinsel and getting to the stickier bits of tree he'd avoided for so long. If he could have spoken this frankly to his therapist, the woman may have had a chance to help him. With Rat, there are no trust issues involved. He had trusted Rat with his life on countless occasions. John's heart may have been a little beaten up from time to time by the man, but in every other way, there was a bond between the two men that served to overthrow any fear John would have in opening up to Rat about things he could not manage to say to other people.

John stated events in the style of a debriefing and was careful to provide an honest analytical analysis of his experiences and state of mind, expecting no judgment or advice and receiving exactly what he anticipated. Rat never took his eyes off John, mumbling an encouraging something in his throat from time to time or nodding.

John described Sherlock, "He was a lot like you really, more brilliant, no offence, but that is probably why he and I hit it off so quickly. I never considered the similarities of him and me vs. you and I and I probably should have. Frankly, I think he was a lifeline and his need to be taken care of led me to misunderstand the dynamics of the friendship. I think that it was a one-sided fiasco."

The Rat raises his eyebrow in mild surprise as if to ask John if he's trying to downplay his story.

John looks down at his clasp hands. He meets the other man's eyes for a second, then looked out the window as he continueed, "He proved what he thinks of me, twice now, so your problem, no matter what the hell it is, came at a very opportune moment. I don't have anything here. It was all in my mind. I made a wrong turn with Sherlock somewhere and even what I found with Molly…well, it wasn't real, not all the way. I could carry on and fix that if I wanted, but I have issues and she would really be better off…without me. It would take a miracle for me to really trust her again, enough to move forward. Probably a gift to her if I leave it behind. I'm fine with what you're asking of me. There isn't much here for me. I know now that there never was. I don't belong here." On that last point, John was not as truthful as he should have been, but he was already determined to follow through on his word to Rat.

Deep cover meant leaving all he knew behind. It meant never again being John Watson. He would never again speak of this life. The Rat had told him once that making this choice had been very hard for him, but of course Rat had never detailed exactly why. John didn't feel it was difficult at all. He would feel guilty for not keeping his promise to Molly, but right now, whatever had brought this man to London, meant keeping a much older and weightier promise. It didn't matter what it was, John would never let this man down. He owed him his life and after all, Molly had lied. He would get word to her that mourning was not necessary, and she would move on. He imagined the relationship with Molly could have probably worked out in time, but Ford 'The Rat' Hall, had asked John for his help.

John knew he wasn't a jumper-wearing broken charity case in Rat's eyes. He was skilled and still vital to Rat or he wouldn't be here. It felt good to be himself and feel the rush of war again. There was no need for Rat to have concern that John Watson felt this was a sacrifice.

"You speak of him in past tense, like he's still dead."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, right this minute. He may as well be, to me. I would have done anything, and I do mean anything to…just love him. Any terms would have been fine. Whatever he wanted. I might have even worn one of those stupid labels people like to throw around…for him. They were already making assumptions. Even the newspaper called me a confirmed bachelor."

"Too bad your Three-Continents persona had yet to be … jumped on," Rat said with his traditional pause for the double-entendre punch word.

John smirked, but let his friend's meaning go with a shake of the head and a good natured snort. He continued, " He basically told me I am useless and would just get in the way. It wouldn't be long before that would have eaten me up. Hours possibly." He sneered and shrugged as if what was at stake here was almost a favor to John.

"Does he know who you are?"

John takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Most things I didn't have to tell him. Jesus, he could tell if I'd had a wank in the shower, but some things, he just never quite put together. I didn't talk about it. It is fatally ingrained to not talk about it to civilians. I would never talk about it to anyone but a brother. You know me better, Rat. "

"Of course, I wasn't questioning your discretion. He does have access to sensitive material, if my sources are reliable. " Rat inquires.

John paused, studying Rat for a second, curious about his sources on his former flat-mate. It was flattering that he seemed so well informed on John's life. John hadn't heard from him but once since he had been shot. He had no idea Rat had paid any attention after all this time. They had parted on ambiguous terms. Part of John's deep depression upon returning to London had occurred because it was more than a medical discharge in John's mind. He'd felt like he'd lost his family. He felt like he'd survived some terrible catastrophe in which everyone he cared about had perished, leaving him alone and trying to navigate in a world that no longer felt real to John.

People looked right past John here. They took him at face value and nobody suspected that the short, limping doctor might be the sort of man who could walk into hell with a smile and walk out with an army of the devil's minions following him. John had always had a way with people and his specialties were mediation, infiltration, conversion and wet work. Saving lives was always his preference, but John found the Hippocratic Oath did not interfere with his oath to queen and country. He never murdered a good guy and that meant he was preventing the loss of life by treating the disease rather than the symptoms. Sometimes, the cancer could be cut out to prevent its spread. The same was true of people and John had no problem with killing anyone whose existence was a cancer upon the world.

He nodded in agreement as he continued, " Sherlock was brilliant. So I have no idea what he did know or didn't. He trusted me more the night I met him than he did when he jumped off that bloody roof. His brother had my public records, but he never said a word to me if he knew more. I think he could have gotten the clearance, if he'd known to look. He seemed to know about everything else going on. But Sherlock's brother, well, he put a lot of trust in me…but I think it was because he didn't intimidate me…much. I thought a lot of him at one time. I can't say I trusted him, not after he sold Sherlock out. He didn't know at the time. But, it changed how I …I don't know, he's not particularly likable, but I had come to respect him. I doubt that can ever be fixed, and all this time, he watched me suffer. He could have kidnapped me and stopped all of this…it's a letdown when someone has your trust and…just blows you off. They both did that." John cleared his throat, careful to keep the sound of accusation toward Ford out of his tone, "Sherlock was the one person who I… of all the people. Even after he died, I trusted him." John shakes his head in confusion and looks into Rat's eyes. "I don't know when or why he stopped trusting me. But none of that matters anymore. Now, your turn. What has Tiger done this time?"

"Well, we have a whole lot of ground to cover there and we are almost to Baker Street. The down and dirty version is he's under private contract. He drifted for a while after all that stupid business. He was the best I ever trained. Better than you, in fact." Ford lifted his chin, not making light of John, simply stating a truth.

"No argument, Rat. He was a God. What they did to him, it was unforgivable," John said with disgust.

"The system, Rhino. Could have been any one of us."

"I watched it happen to him and then I came here and watched the same sort of thing happen to Sherlock. It makes me wonder why anyone bothers," John replies.

"We each have to find our own motive."

John gestured with his hand that he knew this lecture, as he spoke, "I know. Please tell me we can at least try to talk to Tiger. You said he's not on our side. I would rather take a bullet myself then have to take him out, Rat. He's still our brother."

Rat sighs and leans forward, "If you feel that way, just go on home, Rhino. See, I have talked to him. I thought he was our brother, but he proved he wasn't. He's under contract for a hit and when I found out who he was working for, I tried. Here's the thing. He was working for someone who you might recognize. He is in command of a rather extensive network of criminals. The organization is bleeding out and Tiger is getting somewhat wobbly in his management. Not unlike you, John, he floundered and someone tossed him a lifeline. I believe Tiger's former, now deceased, boss and friend referred to himself as a 'consulting criminal' from what I was told. Ring any bells?"

John's face blanches and the wind is sucked from his lungs. "Tiger was working for…Moriatry? God no. Oh my God. He was…sent to kill me?"

"Ding, ding, ding, you have correctly clipped the blue wire and diffused my first bomb." Rat sits back and chuckles.

"But that is who Sherlock is trying to find." John responded with an edge of panic creeping into his voice.

"One of them. He's found a fair number of those he has sought. It has been quite effective in creating chaos within this group. Sherlock isn't the only reason Moriarty's associates have found the transition to new leadership to be less than charming. But he has taken out some vital areas. Now Sherlock seeks Sebastian Moran. And Tiger by the tail is…"

"Guaranteed to fail," John automatically finishes the vaunting old joke Tiger had always said before contact. It wasn't particularly funny, due to the fact it was somewhat true. John realized he was now on the wrong side of his former brother and his former best-friend was also planning to confront Tiger, which made the joke clang with the tone of a bell on a sunken ship. "Oh God. Sherlock's going to get himself killed. He has no chance against him. He has no idea what Tiger can do. None at all." John leans forward, defeated and his abdominal muscles randomly quake in trepidation for Sherlock.

Sherlock is smart and lucky, but Tiger is hard, calm and the most singularly accurate shot in all contact situations ever presented. If Sherlock engages Tiger, Sherlock's life is simply on the count-down. John can't help but imagine Sherlock's head in Tiger's Trijicon Sniper Scope. John was familiar with Tiger's equipment having spotted for him regularly. The image made his gorge rise.

Just when John thinks he's out of Sherlock's FUBAR life, Rat is set to drag him into it again through a back door. John fights this emotional upheaval. He is evidently going off to save Sherlock, with or without Sherlock's consent or knowledge. He has to fight a brother in order to do that. It means there are terrible choices to be made and unfortunately any success or failure will have a very high price. John wonders why he isn't dead, because if Tiger had meant for John to be terminated, he knew that there was little chance he would still be breathing. John chuckled to himself, thinking of how he'd mourned a man who wasn't dead until he'd nearly volunteered to end Tiger's contract for him. John had undoubtedly cleaned the weapon and looked through the scope that was turned on him the day Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's.

For a strange moment, John imagined himself standing next to Tiger watching himself lined up for terminal contact. He wondered if Tiger would have whispered any regret or any kind of apology before pulling the trigger and watching his former spotter's head explode like a water balloon of red mist. John didn't actually hate the idea as much as he should have. If he had to die, at least he knew it wouldn't be a botched job. Seb was the best. John would have never felt a thing. Tiger prided himself on his quirky signature style. Most snipers prided themselves on killing with a single shot. Seb usually took two. Both were instant kill shots, but he had a signature.

Head. Heart.

Tiger would never pretermit a target to show off, but he was a patient man and he had an uncanny ability to hit a man and spin him with the impact so that he could take his redundant second shot before the body hit the ground. Killing had long ago lost the challenge. That second signature shot, was what kept the job entertaining for Seb.

John had liked the fact that what he truly offered was a pain free unknown death. The subject didn't crumble to the pavement in agony, knowing he was about to die. They literally were going about their business one moment and in the second and a half it took for their body to fall, they had stopped consciousness before they tumbled. John had examined Tiger's work and called it art. It may have left an unpleasant corpse for the family to deal with, but for the target, it was a gift. John knew a lot about unpleasant death. He wouldn't have minded death at the hand of such an artist and Tiger would have given John his very best effort.

The feeling of calm acceptance does not extend the forgiveness for Tiger to make art of Sherlock. If Sherlock were to be found with Seb's signature, God or not, John would win. Nothing would ever protect him because John rarely felt the need for wrath, but Sherlock had already proven that he could draw that emotion from John. John was back on the job. John would find some way to protect his idiot-boffin.

"Yes, the dimwitted fool thinks he can out think God and he's playing with matches in an ordnance bunker. Smart rarely meets wise."

"We have to stop him. Rat, we have to…I can't explain…but Sherlock is—"

"Not as far from you mind or your heart as you claim, John. I hoped you still cared enough to help me intervene on his behalf. I did think you would be a bit more of a recruitment challenge considering what it meant. I had all sorts of grand words to talk you into this adventure. Perhaps you missed me more than you care to admit as well."

"You are a bloody prat, and I'd have to be mad to miss you. So get on with it, you and your superior grin have more you want to say. Go on then, no need to relish it. Spit it out."

Rat smiles like a cat with a mouse soufflé on Wedgewood china. "And now for the next little bomb. Of course we are going to save that idiot. Won't be the first time I have stepped in to help him, not that he knows about it, but it seems he is a trouble magnet. Care to guess why I would be interested in Sherlock Holmes? Interested enough to come to London? You know my rule. Why now, after so many years away?"

John tilts his head and looks confused. "I don't understand. You're here for Sherlock? I thought…never mind. What are you saying? You came to London, because of Sherlock Holmes?"

"And you, but yes. Look at me, John. Really look."

John looked at him shaking his head. "I don't see what you mean."

"You see, but you do not observe. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Before I became Ford Hall, the Giant Rat of Sumatra, I had another name, another life. I had to leave that life and my two young sons. I couldn't protect them from the things I had become involved with. So I did what I had to do, to protect the people I cared about. "

John looked up. The hints were all there and John knew he should be making a connection, but something was misfiring in his mind. "You…had children?" he asked, finding the idea almost comical. He couldn't imagine Ford Hall in a normal, mundane life, running to the market to pick up…milk. "No." John can hear his heart pounding as if he's revving up for a firefight.

Rat was trying ineffectually to hide his merriment, his lips kept twisting and his eyes sparkled at his delight in John's prolonged discomposure." I was Sir Sherrinford Hallcroft Malcolm Sherlock Holmes, KBE. You still address me as Commander. It wasn't a rank, John. It was a sentiment. Nobody calls me Major Hall, " he laughed at John's blank face and his mouth hanging open, "Imagine my surprise when I saw that the two of you had formed an…acquaintance?"

"Bollocks. No. Please, God no. Ford Hall. Of course. Perfect. That is absolutely…my disaster of a life in triplicate. Dot the tees and cross the eyes I am…Going to throw up now," John said, actually turning slightly green.

The Rat roared with laughter, earning a watchful glance from the driver who happened to pull into Baker Street and stop the cab just at this time. John bailed out and while the cab fare was settled, John made use of the rainy sidewalk, decorating it with the tarry contents of his stomach. His former commander and father of his former flat-mate was still laughing as he slapped John on the back and told him he must have developed a weak stomach for good coffee.

When recovered, John opened the door to 221b and his friend hesitated. Rather than walking in he pulled his phone from his pocket and seemed to send a text. "Problem?" John asked.

"My elder son and his little toys. Jamming them. That should take care of it." He smiled and stepped inside.

"You can do that? That isn't a mobile phone, is it?" John said peeking at the device upside down.

He made a throaty sound, "It does that too. That's just one of its many fine features. Lots of wizards in the international game, Rhino. No limit to what you can buy, if you know who to speak to. This, developed by a kid in Norway. Sixteen years old and has to set his appointments for meetings with the world's masterminds around his cross-country ski practice and his school activity schedule. I was there in June and his parents invited all his new friends to dinner. Sat down for a lovely salmon with a drug dealer from Mexico, a GSG9 agent and a pirate Captain from Somalia. I think if we could get this kid to have a party, NATO could take lessons. Pleasant bunch of people, Norwegians."

"I am flabbergasted to know that, considering what we just discovered. About two people I have had rather close personal relationships with…being related. But, we are discussing, the attributes of Norway? I hear the weather there is very nice for like ten days a year. By all means, Sir Sherrinford Holmes, do tell me more. My nightmares were getting pretty dull. Don't you want to liven them up with any more abominable tidbits? You seem in particularly emetic form this evening. "John said in a low tone, he stomped up the stairs, unlocked the door to his flat and waved Rat in.

"He put Angry Birds on it for me too," Rat went on as if John hadn't spoken. " I like that game. I keep in touch with the boy on World of Warcraft. And you just discovered it, I have known of your interesting association for some time. Were you lovers, you and my son?" Rat asked the last part in the same bored tone he'd discussed Angry Birds.

"What? No. I was serial-dating women, after you. You know what I can be like. I thought it was headed there, but he … no. I don't actually date men, you know. You and I…just never mind, I am not discussing this. No, we were defiantly not lovers, thank you."

"I see. So it wouldn't be an impropriety if I were to kiss you. After you brush your teeth, of course." His eyes looked John up and down lustily.

"Jesus, don't you dare start this again."

Rat blinks and looks slightly offended. "Why the hell not? I've missed you."

"No, because it always starts out nice, then it ends with me alone, and you …disappearing. Last time was not good. I nearly died."

"You may die tonight if this shite doesn't all go well. And I didn't leave you. You went out and got yourself shot."

"Yeah. That's true. All my fault there. Thanks for all the cards and well wishes, by the way."

Rat looks at him as if John has lost his mind. "Know what happened to the guy who shot you?"

"Don't even know who it was, Rat." John said, wrinkling his forehead.

There is that cat-like smile again, eyes squinting in mirth, voice a smooth purr, so much like Sherlock it makes John feel lightheaded. "I sent you a wallet."

"Six months later. Yeah, you did. No card, just a wallet. Still have it." John pulls it out of his pocket. "Very nice. Thank you. Water repellant and everything"

"You didn't pay attention. What kind of leather is it?"

John looks at it and his face goes dark. His eyes glassed over as he looked at his friend and realized what he was saying. "There it is, more nightmares," John said as his eyes roll upward, leaving only the whites visible.

"Tanned it myself. Stinky business…tanning." The smile grows sinister, "That reminds me, where is Mr. Fellows? Always pay my respects." Ford gestured to the mantle.

"You mean the skull? You know who he is? He has a name? Sherlock appropriated him. Took that with him. Left me behind. I was just filling in for…Mr. Fellows? Wait, how would you know where it sat? Jesus, you have been here. You have been in this flat?" John flops in his chair, unable to process any more fun Holmes-trivia whilst standing.

"Oh. Yes. Several times in fact. Should be obvious I think. I did just scramble all your security cameras. I couldn't have cracked their frequency codes that quickly otherwise, now could I? Sorry. Pity that, about Fellows I mean. I was hoping to speak with him."

"Yes. Tragic. I personally blubbered like a baby at his departure," John said, deadpanning his sarcasm.

Rat steps toward the mantle and swipes his finger at the spot the skull had occupied. "Missed him by a few hours. You should dust on occasion, John. Your sinuses would appreciate the effort. Mr. Fellows was one of my first kills. Very nice man. He was a traitor, of course. But, he was a nice traitor. Brought him home to Sherlock when he was just a little bit of a scamp. His mother scolded me, but Sherlock loved him right away. Insisted he stay in his room. Mycroft was afraid of the thing, but not Sherlock. He always did take after me. Mummy dear ruined Mycroft, but Sherlock, he was something special. Still is. As you seem to have … discovered?" he turns to John, and his left eyebrow rose to punctuate the last word.

John was sitting in his chair, his head propped on his fist. His eyes dart around the flat and back to his guest.

" Of course I have been here. But my son's little toys are apparently not as secure as he believes them to be, so I have been checking in on you from time to time. Long distance. Anyway, you need to finish your note while I arrange your suicide, my boy. Snap to it, we don't have all night." He says texting rapidly as he paced.

John returned a few minutes later with the note in his hand. Rat has disappeared, but before John has had time to process all the bad things an unattended Rat might cause, he reappears in the sitting room and takes a seat in Sherlock's chair. His cloths are freshly pressed and dry, having hung in Sherlock's closet for the last year.

John does a double take. "It's official. Weirdest day of my life."

"You should get busy writing and stop wasting time admiring my arse. Three hours and I have no intention of spending it growing puckered when there are perfectly suitable dry garments in you little shrine back there. He was never dead and I have not blasphemed his sacred belongings. You should change too. You'll end up catching your death. May as well be comfortable." Rat stated as he continued to type on his phone-like object.

John doesn't say a word. He gets up, goes upstairs and changes his clothes. He returns to his chair and props the note on a book and tries to figure out what else he can say. He can't think as Ford moves around the kitchen, not needing to ask where the cups are or where he keeps the tea. John reminds himself, he has been here before.

"So, when you visited before? Was that before or after Sherlock…didn't die?" John manages to sound calm but he keeps touching his mouth in irritation.

"Both." Rat answers, setting one cup of tea beside John and blowing on his own cup before sipping it.

"But you didn't think to say hello. Not even after?" John picks up the cup and holds it close to his lips, waiting for an answer.

"I did say hello once, after. Perhaps you don't remember. I had never seen you so…affected by drinking. I brought you home. Saw to your wounds. It was only four of them, just kids really. I didn't permanently injure them. I didn't return after that." He said calmly but wouldn't meet John's eyes. His index finger circled the rim of the cup. He held the cup in his other hand, palm on the bottom, thumb through the handle.

"I would have liked your company."

"I don't think so, John," he said quietly. Ford blinked several times, set the cup aside and pulled John's computer into his lap.

John contemplated what he meant by that statement but gave up trying to guess. Ford would tell him when he wanted him to know. John settled down and quickly finished his task.

**_I am sorry to anyone who is hurt, but I have made this choice because as a physician, I know the early signs of a mind losing its battle for sanity. I have to face that the odds of winning this fight are slim and I can't allow myself to take chances that the honored profession of Psychiatric Medicine has any hope of securing any useful future for me. I am too dangerous to allow myself to harm someone I care for, so with this apparent prospect looming, I know I am making the right choice. If I were to stand in front of a bullet for any one of you, I would be a hero. I am doing that. I know how to prevent the bullet from ever being fired. Just know, I am happy and I don't do this out of any wish to cause sorrow._**

**_Molly, I know you will probably take this hard. You made me happy, and I will carry my memories of you with me for all time. I hope you move on quickly and shine that brilliant light of yours on someone who deserves it._**

**_Sherlock Holmes, I'm coming for you. Call me your guardian angel, you arrogant sod. _**

**_Why is love like a Rhino?_**

**_Its short sighted, thick skinned, ready to charge and woe be to the fool who gets in its way._**

**_All my love,_**

**_Captain John 'Rhino' Hamish Watson, SMO, RAMC , 5th Northumberland Fusiliers _**

John finishes his note and hands it to Ford. He goes to make fresh tea while The Rat reads it for approval.

"You ended your suicide note…with a joke?"

"Sure. You always say, leave them laughing. And the suicide is a joke, hopefully, if my decrepit old wanker of a commanding officer doesn't muck it up too much, so why not," John said with a shrug and a grin that indicated he is resigned to this plan and now he's just going to go into his classic approach of soldier-on-a-lark mode.

"I have missed you. You always made me laugh, you fun-sized prat."

"Short jokes? I am doing this, why, again? Now, to the surviving part. Any actual plans for that or should I just order a bouquet?"

"Your faith in me is warming my heart. You were dive-certified, right?"

"Of course. But that was years ago. Not sure I will make it believable if I am wearing a wet suit and tanks," John replied, brows furrowed in confused skepticism.

"Not exactly. There is a tow rope. The tanks will be on that. Now, what happens in dear old London when a jumper ends his sorrows?"

John shrugged, and said, "People search for them, try to save them?"

"Yes, but they only search down-current. Here's how this will work…"

* * *

_**If you have forgiven me for the' why' John jumped in the Thames and upset everyone, you may feel free to review. If you haven't forgiven me, you may still feel free to review. Thank you all for your lovely comments. Sorry it's taking a bit for me to update. I have a new job. I scare people for a living and I seem to be quite good at it. The Manor has a 'Tinkle-Tally' and it has already reached 32. Keep that in mind should you be so inclined as to visit a haunted house this season…we are watching to see if you wet your pants. (or worse)**_


	30. Chapter 30 - 7 - Deep Water

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

So it came to pass in the year of sorrows that John Watson stands trembling in the rising sun on Waterloo Bridge before three students with a video phone and his two Holmesian-directed shadows sprinting toward him. It has been a night that would make history, set in the record books of merry England as the largest temperature drop ever recorded overnight. Watson has no idea the havoc his death is about to create, he only knows he's about to embark upon the most singularly stupid happening of his life.

He slips the cable tow, left in place by another unknown person and supposedly attached to a boat up the river, standing by, over his boot and prays the damned thing doesn't yank his foot off. If the boat operator doesn't manage to amputate his foot in his initial burst of power, and he doesn't get tangled or impale himself on hidden debris and the tanks don't bash his head in as they rush toward him sliding unrestrained down the accelerating metal cable of death, he might live. Of course that is assuming that he can stay underwater, against the current and the boat speed, right himself, figure out how to ride the cable underwater, while trying to work an air tank, in the murk, he's never laid eyes on, before he drowns and they reel him in like a dead sea-turtle.

Provided all those things fail to kill him, he has hypothermia, and probable pathogen borne infection to contemplate, while praying it's a low chemical load day and that nobody dumped anything near the river that will cost him his eyes or all his skin for that matter. Swimming in the Thames was a bad idea, no matter how confidently a Holmes said it would work.

John mumbles under his breath, speaking to the invisible legends of fate in his last probable one-sided conversation, pretty sure he's about to learn all the answers of man's quest to look beyond the veil. "Yeah, I get it, God. Death by Holmes is my, set in stone, fate. Try not to make it hurt, and I promise God, the next suicide note, I will take much more seriously. No jokes, I swear. Okay. Well, I do hate this by the way, just in case you care."

He glances out upon London, snaps a smart salute, as a farewell to Rat, should this go horribly as he expects it to, and then Molly and Sherlock firmly fixed in his mind, he plunged forward.

He manages to hit the frigid water in rescue diver position, butt first and sinking. It is only after he has managed to get a firm grip on the cable and get it well positioned in the arch of his foot, that he has a bit of hope. The tank is there within thirty seconds and does not kill him on impact and he actually has his first breath of compressed air before he'd begun praying to Sherlock, Shiva and the Flying Spaghetti Monster to let him live.

'This insanity might actually work' he is thinking when he feels the tug of further acceleration jerk painfully at his foot and now he begins rotating. Quickly he has lost control and is spiraling and trapped by the tanks and cable. The new problem causes drift, which knocks him into the side of a bridge pylon with enough force to damage a tank and break his ribs, thus pushing the regulator mouthpiece out of his mouth. The pain reflex causes him to suck water into his lungs and now he's choking and he can't get his head above water. If he lets go to try to replace the mouthpiece between his teeth, he's going to lose his tentative grip on the cable. He has no idea how much time has passed or if it's safe to surface.

He knows his only option is to let go and hope that he can make it to the bank before the current drags him right back to the rescue boats. That would be an automatic section. NHS would pull his medical license and he'd sit in a cell with a little paper cup of colorful drugs he would no longer remember the name of, while Sherlock dies again. No, he won't let go.

John holds on as long as he can, but he knows his limits and he finally makes the decision to give up on the plan and improvise as best he can. He's far enough away by now he ought to be able to reach one bank or the other. The water rushing past feels like the enemy, and it is trying to find a way into his shrieking chest. He lets go, expecting to be carried away.

Theoretically, letting go was the wise choice, unfortunately the random guest list he'd invoked in prayer were not on the same page and he struggles desperately and without any benefit to detach himself from the death cable.

Now his lungs have taken over command and all he can think of is getting a breath of air. His abdomen is involuntarily convulsing and trying to override his brain that is chanting 'don't breathe'. The struggle is causing pain to shoot through him from the fractured ribs. He makes a valiant effort to surface and manages one precious lung expanse of beautiful cold air. His head has broken the surface, which aligns him precisely with an oncoming boat. He hears the propeller just before he hears a loud noise.

"What was…"

John knows there is a lot of activity going on and someone is kissing him as he spews something burnt, oily and nasty like a frigid volcano. Everything hurts and something is determined to shove at least one of his broken ribs into his lungs. He shoves the kisser aside and vomits, nearly aspirates before hands guide him to lie on his side and still there is more erupting from him. His pain level is so great that he feels his bowels and bladder release and he doesn't care in the least.

He assesses his condition as best he can and grabs the kissing man, who is of course Rat, by the front of his shirt and hisses in short broken syllables, "CPR is over. Share your Morphine. Now! May go into shock, head injury, internal bleeding possible. Watch my pressure."

Rat nods and moves in slow motion to John's pain filled mind. He feels a stick and there are a few more seconds of agony before he feels the pain begin to ease enough that he can think straight.

Rat's eyes are wide and he is out of breath. "Just relax, I've done this a time or two."

"That could have gone better. This is drowning, complicates a field injury." John manages to get out between coughing and choking.

"What else?"

"Oxygen. Warm me up slowly. Check my pupils. If one blows, you need to get me to … hospital."

He closes his eyes just for a moment, just to rest for a second and thank whatever answered that he's still breathing.

He awakens bundled up, wrapped much like a cocoon, warm, dry, and naked. "It's about damned time, Rhino. You made a mess of that. Heart stopped. Mine nearly and yours did."

"Ahh. They had an AED on that garbage scow?" John rasps in the direction of the voice. He can barely see in the dim light, with one eye only, willing to open and focus.

"Not exactly. We made do with what we had."

"Jesus. Did you restart my heart with…"

"Jumper cables." Rat says with a wink.

"Yes. That would explain the burns. " John says peeping at his chest in disgust.

"Told you it would work," Rat says, as if a near death experience for John had been in the plan all along. Disney adventures had nothing on Ford Hall, the Giant Rat of Sumatra and zombie dead father of the zombie dead love of his life.

Now John is among the walking dead, too, and it felt like there had been a mistake because post-mortem exams, conducted whilst one was alive, could not hurt much more than he did at this time. John tried to move and grunted in pain. "Jesus, what did you do? Feel like I was hit by a train."

"May have miscalculated a little, but it worked out fine. Well, except for you getting hit by a boat. Sorry about that," Rat says as if he's lightly trampled a toe by mistake.

"You call this a success? I think not. Failing to factor in the bridge structure may have been a slight bloody oversight too. Started off fine, then someone hit the throttle and I was spinning like fish bait out there and met up with a pylon hard enough to hope I don't get sued for intentional structural failure in a few years. Couldn't get untangled and then took a beam from the Matilda Briggs." John grouched satisfyingly. He and Rat had a long standing joke about their excruciating time spent on a ship of that name."You _would_ call that a good outcome."

"Yes. I do. You're here, alive to bitch another day. Worked out…swimmingly."

"You half-witted, cockeyed son of a—"

"Ah, ah. Language, my dear," The Rat says, rolling his eyes with mock offence.

John glares at him, closing his mouth and yet conveying every bad word he'd ever learned just as clearly with his expression alone.

Rat laughed in a relieved, slightly hysterical way, and admonished, "Careful, your pretty face could get stuck that way. And you'll never graduate to 'Four-Continents Watson,' unless you significantly lower your standards."

"I can tell how worried about my face you were when you came up with the plan to slam me into a bridge…and a boat." John grumbles then winces. "Where the hell am I anyway? And why do I smell like garlic?"

"France. We had to smuggle you in as cargo, due to the unfortunate difficulty of you not currently resembling your fake passport. No need to thank me, I don't mind a little detour. Your company is well worth any trouble you have been."

"Wait, what? How long have I been out?"

"Two days. But, not to worry, we'll catch up. I know where he's headed. You made the news, by the way. BBC2 did a _lie_-umentary all about you and Sherlock, solving crimes, tragic lovers, dead before your time. Blah, Blah, Blah. It was quite moving," he says, purposefully crossing his eyes to convey that it was probably ghastly and sentimental twaddle.

"Okay, good. That's good. I'm..dead then? Officially?" John asks, ignoring how many shades of tits up and gutted he is discovering as his thoughts jump first to Molly and how she must feel right now. Mrs. Hudson would cry and he deserved to hurt this bad for making that dear woman cry. Greg would get drunk, probably tell everyone what a stupid git John Hamish Watson was, then get weepy and maudlin. That's what he'd done when Sherlock died. Strangely, when he imagines what Sherlock must be thinking, he smirks with satisfaction.

"You are now without a name, a country, or any taxation worries. Taxes are much more certain than death in this instance, yes? How does it feel to be nobody?"

"I'm bandaged. Did you take me to a doctor then? Feels like torture. Guess that Jadda in Bagdad told the truth? I am officially burning in hell…no surprise who my reaper turns out to be," John says with a slight cough.

"Thank you. About time you picked up on my secret agenda. I'm only an apprentice reaper. Haven't earned my big scary sickle yet. I'll expect a gift upon graduation. Of course I took you to a doctor. You had a head injury. Only the best for my babies. Of course, he was not used to dealing with such small clients, had a bit of trouble calculating the dosages, but we got it all settled."

"Short jokes again or…no. What kind of doctor?"

"Oh, he had lots of awards and such on his wall. He was a very good one, I assure you."

"Uh huh? Did he leave any instructions?'

"Yes. I have followed them to the letter." Rat pulls out a slip of paper.

John looks at the heading. "It's in French."

"Of course. We are in their country."

John doesn't read French, but two words stand out after the doctor's name and he quickly figures out what they mean. "Chirugien veterinaire?"

The Rat sighs, face blank daring John to complain. "Yes."

"You took me to a veterinary surgeon?" John asks in bewildered fury.

The rat shrugs. "Told him you were a Rhino. A very small, Sumatran Rhino. It's written right there. Had to make his file look official, the French government is quite strict on its tax filings. He was rather skilled. Won't even be much of a scar."

"I got stiches?"

"Well we couldn't very well remove your spleen without them."

"You had a veterinarian…remove my spleen? Jesus…What the hell was I thinking?"

"Well, not all of it. He's an animal surgeon not a plague doctor. He didn't wear one of those pointy-nosed masks or anything. Cutting edge facility, I assure you. Even washed his hands. Call it more of a spleen repair. I'm just glad you are still thinking at all. Your skull will heal, have to be careful for a while. He was most concerned the brain swelling would affect your short term memory, but you're a tough little thing, Always have been. "

John closes his eyes and gently feels his scalp wrapped in far too much gauze. "He had no back up blood supply. I could have bled to death. God. Please tell me you did not have a horse doctor do brain surgery on me?"

"No. Of course not. It was unnecessary. You responded to the…"

"How did I not see it? I have got to be stupid. How did I miss that you are…without doubt…related to Sherlock Holmes? God, he's just like you," John says with annoyance and frustration.

Rat blushes in pleasure. A small melancholy smile appears and his eyes sparkle. "Thank you. You have no idea what it means to be able to have one person with whom I can speak of my sons again. To be told by someone that perhaps the small amount of time I had with them may have mattered in some trivial way. I know all the facts about them, but oh, to speak to someone who actually cares about them and knows tiny details only a loved one could. To step back through that door. You have no idea. You just can't conceive what it means. I have mourned not being part of their lives all these years and…"he trails off as if he can't quite finish the thought.

John waited for him to continue. He hadn't meant the statement as a commendation yet Rat's reaction broke John's heart, just a slight bit; he'd taken him to an animal doctor, after all. John pictured what it would be like to love something and never be able to tell them. He may not have lived that exact torment, but he could empathize.

He abstractly pictured what it would be like to go back to find Molly married. For a second he considered what it would feel like to see her pregnant with another man's child. It would be a bit like a second death. They hadn't spoken of it for a while, but there had been a couple of times that it had slipped casually into discussion. He had to admit that fatherhood had crossed his mind when he'd decided to propose.

He couldn't help but dream of such things. He wasn't sure there would be another chance. Live or die, he knew who he wanted to spend his life with. Molly had been his choice only because the other choice had been taken away. He couldn't say he felt he was settling for second best, but without Sherlock, he'd allowed his dreams to morph into new more comfortably traditional places and his heart felt split. He could not be without Sherlock if allowed the option any time in the future, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be without Molly. He'd made this insane decision to go with Rat on the fly, without really weighing his options.

He had not yet resolved that there was no going back. He is dead to that life now and he is just now hearing the first whispers of the grief for those insignificant everyday visions and modestly normal hopes. Truth is dawning on him that all those dreams were effectively dead with him.

Sherlock's words bear new light as John steps into the shoes of a man with no identity. He now exists outside his own life. He has no sister, no friends who will open their arms to him and acknowledge they know him. He isn't an official doctor now. He has the knowledge, but other than the desperate, who would he practice his craft upon? All those years of dues and sacrifice have just evaporated. Yes, it opens him up to a kind of freedom most people think they would want. It sounds like romance and adventure. He'd almost worshiped Ford like a super-hero fan.

Ford never bemoaned his old life. He seemed like a lucky, foot-loose, adventurous movie star come to life. That was what he wanted everyone to see. The actuality didn't look so pretty. It didn't even look real from this side of the lens.

John had wanted to be a movie star when he was young. He was going through that burn-out, rebel-against-your-parents, school-is-useless stage. There was a film crew in a neighboring town all the way from Hollywood. They were filming a romantic comedy set in medieval times. He'd run away and confidently offered his services. They had turned him down, of course, but he had shown up every day and hung around, just in the director's line of sight without being obtrusive. At the end of every day, he'd waited patiently outside, ignoring the dazzling actors and the chance to get one to sign a piece of paper to say he'd met a movie star who would forget him two seconds later.

The first day the director ignored him. As he left the main gate, John asked for his autograph. The director narrowed his eyes but complied obviously a little flattered, but not fooled by the kid who had shown his arrogance thinking he could walk on and be of any use to important people. The next day John arrived with a notebook and spent the day watching and scribbling. Again he asks for the director's autograph. He'd scrawled his name in John's notebook but in a less friendly way.

Every day he did this and finally after a week the man couldn't stand it any longer and had demanded to know what the heck the kid thought he was doing. John had smiled and said that he could learn a lot even if he didn't get to work on the set. "I'm studying you, sir."

"To what end? I told you, no."

"Yes, sir. But, so long as I'm not bothering you, I can still learn from you," John had said quietly.

"Oh really? So, what have you learned from way over there?" the director had asked making it plain that he thought John was a snot-nosed prat.

"Monday I learned that people bow and cater to you because you are the most important person here."

The director snorted, "Well, that was a waste of thirty seconds." He turned to go.

John kept pace with him and said clearly but in a much lower tone, "But, I also learned that they hide things from you because they don't want to look bad in your eyes. And that leads to a lot of stupid delays and mistakes while everyone rushes around passing blame instead of doing their job. That's stressful for you and you have every right to yell, but it just makes them all act that way more."

The director stopped. "Still not very impressed, but at least your truthful. What else do you have jotted down there?"

"You like your coffee with two creams and one sugar."

"So? Everyone on this set knows that." he says as if he's lost interest again.

"Yes. So why do you have to ask for them to bring it to you. You hate it cold and you don't order anything different, but they stand around and wait for you to ask. You should have hot coffee by your chair at all times, whether you drink it or not. But you don't ask them to do that. They make you wait."

The man tilted his head and slipped his hands in his back pocket. "What do you learn from that?"

"I learned that you put up with a lot and ignore the games they play with you, because you know what is more important. You pick what you get mad about."

The director's eyebrows shot up. "That's not so bad. I do. I also admit when I've missed something. Be here, Monday."

John had been hired and even been used as an extra in the movie. His torso could be seen walking by the speakers three times and his darkened head was part of the audience during a rousing speech given by the protagonist of the film. The thing is, it had changed the way he watched movies. He'd always loved the adventure and the rousing fights when swords clashed and dragons were battled. Being on the other side of the camera, seeing the fights looking like a ridiculous dance rather than danger had spoiled their mystique for him. To this day, he picked apart the fantastic moves and gym class antics of movie fights.

He'd never been able to shake the tarnish of that enlightening summer. The Rat had been John's movie star for so long he could barely recall a time when he didn't look up to him. Even when things had gone on between them that John didn't regret - but hadn't been prepared for - he'd never really seen Ford Hall as a man. He'd been a real life version of James Bond, Captain Kirk, and Rambo all wrapped up in an eccentric comedian.

John held his breath as all the magic bled away and he really looked at the man sitting beside him. His eyes still looked like ash as if he could burn the world down and never show a second's regret. His face had moved south slightly and now, in his early sixties, the first puckers of jowls could be discerned. He was still magnificent, but in the same way as a Lion who is days from losing his place in the pride he had built and fathered.

He was a lonely man who would no longer fit into normal society and it wasn't inconceivable that he might end up some unknown homeless scarecrow reeking of mouthwash and eating from rubbish bins if he didn't find himself that last high-noon gunfight to make quick work of his whispered deeds turned legend among a select few who knew more of him than they actually knew him.

Where had he spent last Christmas? When was the last time someone sung happy birthday to him? What will become of him in a few years, when he's aged beyond this life of battle and wits and stoic lonely searches for people who needed to stop existing? What happens to him when he can't run any longer?

He thought of Sherlock growing up thinking his father was dead. He wonders how different the man he loved might have been if he'd had this man's guiding influence. John felt his chest physically hurt with understanding. Sherlock had suffered so much for this man's adventures and causes. But this other man, this father, and friend John has loved most of his adult life has inconspicuously suffered too.

Ford was not a man to be pitied. He'd never tolerate that. But John had been wrong about him and he now knew he had been wrong about Sherlock as well. Sherlock needed John, but he was taking the bullet, to protect John from ever becoming nobody. Sherlock had watched John Watson suffer and finally move on. He hadn't been pushing John away at all. He'd been offering him the only salvation he knew how to give.

Sherlock had become nobody for him.

John had treated Sherlock as if his sacrifice was no sacrifice, but a betrayal. John understood now how that must have hurt his best friend. John had said that he would always believe in Sherlock, but it wasn't true. He had forgotten his promise. He had been so focused on getting what he wanted, that he had never looked at it from Sherlock's point of view.

His vision blurred and he closed his eyes, then very quietly, John began to speak, "Sherlock's never spoken of you casually, other than to say you died, but he keeps a picture of you. I caught him in an odd mood one day, his birthday, a month or so after we met. He said he was older than his father now. That was the only time he blurted anything about you. He didn't show me the picture in his hand, I found it later during one of his danger-night flat-searches. You couldn't have been more than twenty or so. I never made the connection to you. When I got back to London, the past was strangely distant and painful. I killed a man to protect him after knowing Sherlock for thirty-six hours. That's how quickly he had earned my trust, despite all the terrible things others tried to say about him. He's easy to misunderstand, and I'm no exception. " John's eyes slit open and he finds Rat leaning very close, attention riveted and a tear threatening to escape with the next blink from his left eye.

John reaches out his hand and Rat takes it, encouraging John to continue with a slight squeeze.

John swallows and nods. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade told me once that Sherlock is a great man. He said he hoped one day that he'd be a good one as well. At that moment, I didn't know what to say, because he was the first one who had said something that didn't sound like a warning label for serial killers. The thing is, he doesn't have to be good, or well liked or a cheerful ball of levity. People don't hate him and fear him because he's damaged, and he is damaged, but that isn't why they are cruel to him."

John paused, wanting to say the right thing. " Ford, he's an honorable man. I swear to you, he is deeply an honorable man. They both are, if you want my honest opinion. That's what the ordinary wretches can't abide. They could never be him, and they hate him so much for it. He's beautiful and they want to destroy what they can never achieve. I should have told him that. At exactly the wrong time, I was one of them."

Ford's eyes narrow as if it's just dawned on him that John is possibly filtering his comments. "Not what you said two days ago. Why has your tune changed? Is it just because he's my son, or did you bribe an angel for a task of penance while you were checked out on me?" Ford asked. "You don't have to speak kindly of him for my sake. "

"Neither. Didn't get bribed and not saying it just for you. I didn't understand." John chuckles bitterly. He takes a painful deep breath and tries to keep himself alert. His voice is soft, contented and almost peaceful, " He wasn't trying to push me off a bridge when he said I couldn't go with him. He was trying to keep me… from jumping off one," John said with eyes drooping closed.

* * *

_Plague Doctors - were doctors who wore long bird masks fitted with nice smelling herbs during the outbreaks of the black death. Surpisingly the outfits of heavy oiled leather, mask, wide brimmed hat and goggles did offer some protection, not from the actual illness, but from the fleas that carried it, thus making the doctors seem almost magical._

_The Matilda Briggs is a ship used in an ACD Sherlock Holmes story. _

_Deep cover is 'spy' for getting rid of your actual identity. _

_Sherrinford Holmes was ACD's name for his main character before he settled on Sherlock_.


	31. Chapter 31 - 8 -The Language of Birds

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two  
**Summary**:_ Mycroft makes connections. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Mendacity II chapter 31/8

The Language of Birds.

**_"The Raven's house is built with reeds,- Sing woe, and alas is me! And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, High on the hollow tree; And the Raven himself, telling his beads In penance for his past misdeeds, Upon the top I see." _**

**_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_**

Mycroft entered his Spartan office, his steps heavy with exhaustion and care-worn dark bags prominently tucked below his eyes. He took exactly twelve seconds to realize his security had been breached at some point during his absence. The comprehension brought a sigh of relief rather than irritation. It meant his brother had thus far not succumbed to his long practiced method of dealing with unpleasant circumstance.

Mycroft's assistance brought him a perfect cup of tea laced with his favorite single malt. "Beatrice," she said with a wink, informing him of the name she planned to use the next week.

"Thank you, Winstonia," he replied. It was a little game they played from when she had been a new recruit. On occasion, she came up with something so off-the-wall that he would fail to remember her weekly choice, but those slips were few and far between. She must have taken pity on him this week, choosing something so lovely.

Mycroft sipped the tea and let the peaceful moment wash through his mind. Mycroft hated to expect the worst of Sherlock, but understanding had long ago whipped his hopeful and inexperienced prospects of his brother. He no longer held out hope that Sherlock would ever, ever develop a rational response to stress. His beliefs long ago morphed into a more realistic standard. Sherlock would be Sherlock, and Mycroft would have to mop his brother up from some disgusting situation.

Danger night protocol, grade-three surveillance, and even his willingness to be treated unbearably by his brother, rather than make any overt insistence that he behave, were all merely preemptive measures. Sherlock had proven repeatedly what his probable future would entail. The 'ice man' as he had of late been made aware was his most recent moniker, only hoped to prevent the inescapable for as long as possible.

Few people on this earth ever were allowed to suppose that Mycroft had a heart. Hearts were dismal overburdened liabilities. They were so easily broken but hard to mend. Mycroft had grown a bit lax under John Watson's helpful influence. John had represented a motive to excel far beyond any incentives Mycroft had ever been able to establish. John had become Sherlock's family.

Of course, Mycroft wasn't foolish enough to believe that Sherlock was not teetering upon the brink of the abyss since his own supposed death. Still, John's proverbial existence alone had kept Sherlock mindful of how far he let it run. John's relationship with Molly had nearly broken Sherlock. John's death was certain to leave but one Holmes to carry on the family.

God, he would have to get married soon and produce the next generation of the British government. Mycroft sighed and made a note for Winstonia to find him a suitably titled brood mare and see to the introductions. He wondered if he should plan eight or twelve dates before he could get down to the business of proposing.

He scanned the file his brother had left him. He went to the trouble of breaking in, it must be rather important to Sherlock, though it was a shame he couldn't just be civilized and make an appointment or invite him to lunch like the gentleman his background suggested him to be. It was one of Sherlock's quirks that frankly reminded Mycroft of their father. Sherlock had been so stubborn even back when their father had been lost.

It had required almost two years before the youngest Holmes didn't fly into a rage each time there was a casual remark concerning their father's death. Then he'd taken to his brooding silences and each time Mycroft came home for holiday he could see his dear little brother shrinking as his physical body became all elbows and hyper-extensive gawky joints and electric eyes announcing his towering ego.

Mycroft carefully read the file. Molly Hooper was the subject. It seems Sherlock had trusted a sleeper. Before him was proof that Moriarty had not so much created his web, as consolidated it into what it is now. He was a mythical Arthur, uniting an underworld. Molly was a lost princess, a grail maid, and he objectively found it very unlikely that she was unaware of her ties and duties.

Moriarty, in this case was not a family name, but a title. James Moriarty was never a man any more than Richard Brook was an actor. Mori means to die. Moriarty means a great navigator of the seas. He has no known children, yet it is said that they are searching for his heir.

He took on the surname when he'd earned it. He was not so much a fellow named James Moriarty but a king of crime. He was James, the Moriarty. Mycroft thought back into history. He felt as if his own deductive mind should have made the connections long ago. He sat very still, thinking and following the paths his subconscious selected. Mycroft focused on a story of his family and it was as if dusty puzzles finally slotted together in his mind.

It was joked that the Holmes family had been behind the crown since England had been an outpost of Rome. There were four families who were called the magic behind the majesty. There is a legend that says when the ravens leave the tower of London, England would fall. There are actual captive birds who people think her majesty has discourse with for advice. It is a silly fairytale much beloved by the tourists and touted as fact.

Of course, every fairytale has some truth. The four families are secretly known as the Ravens. They have served for generations, yet the history books never speak of these advisors. Oh, on occasion they get mentioned in reference to some deed or document. Once in a while, there is a beheading. But there is always a raven watching over the crown. This service has never been limited to England, but nobody needs to know about that.

Richard the lionhearted was attended by a Holmes all the way to the crusades and it was a Holmes who paid his ransom and brought him back to his beloved people. It is legend that the last of the Templars were protected by the French Holmes family and found safe passage for the betrayed knights. There should have been reprisals, but even foolish popes and greedy kings can be brought to justice. The Poor Knights were aided by the St. Claire family and continued existence into the present day.

Queen Elizabeth the First had a tower full of brilliant ravens and look what she accomplished with their council. Queen Mary banished most of them, in her normal bloody fashion. Yes, there were truths behind the myths. Bloody Mary had faith in Rome, not ravens. Good Queen Bess had faith in her clever birds and they had served her with faith in England.

There were stories of Mycroft's Great-Great-Grandfather told in hushed tones with both awe and shame. The year was 1893 and coincidentally another Sherlock Holmes waged an epic battle against a mathematician who was a Cambridge Professor. It was said that Mycroft and Sherlock's distant ancestor had died in disgrace. He'd been ruined by accusations and had died a broken man. Yet the family spoke of him with unreserved regard among themselves. They still named sons after him. He had been brilliant according to the family story. He had killed the evil Professor, sacrificing his own life in the process.

The official story was much darker. He'd gone down in history as a murderer. Some even claimed he was Jack the Ripper.

Mycroft had always listened to these tales with a bored skeptic's ear. Of course, Sherlock believed them hook, line and sinker, but he did get stuck with the name, so Mycroft had indulged his brother's questions much of the time.

There were other tales of that Sherlock from long ago having been caught red-handed visiting various famed Molly Houses. Buggery was against the law and to be found guilty meant prison and ruin. James Spensor was the last man to be hanged for the crime in 1860, but conviction or rumor effectively ended the life of anyone suspected none- the-less. There were many famous cases in which the highest were brought to ill fate at the mere accusation of such propensity. Sherlock had died in 1893 and it is rumored that his name was still being dragged through the muddy waters at the trial of Oscar Wilde two years later.

The coincidence of the name Moriarty now made Mycroft's skin crawl, for he'd seen variations on it for his whole life, yet never connected the dots. There were ancient records that spoke of bandits with names like Muircheardach and McMuirihertie.

His brother, his wonderful, brilliant brother, had bent time and legend and formed an answer of profoundly disturbing significance. He has tried to conquer an empire without borders and a king without a throne, who sinks into myth, mist and malevolence.

The evidence before him sickened him. Molly Hooper's ancestry spoke volumes. Molly's father was Harold Hooper, a boxer in his youth. He later became a supposed fisherman, who had ties with smugglers in the early seventies. He had appeared on several government watch lists but never been convicted of any crime. His wife's illness had brought about his apparent retirement from his supposed illegal career goals. His final days were spent as the proprietor of a small fish and chip shop. The wife was actually the most solid connection.

Molly Hooper's mother had been an O'Murich from Ireland. The O'Murich family had spawned some rather renowned creatures. The Professor was included in her familial line and so was a man by the name of James O'Murich who would grow up to be known as James Moriarty. James O'Murich would one day be buried under a black stone that read Sherlock Holmes. Molly and James were actually distant cousins.

Mycroft sat and contemplated these connections, feeling like he'd been personally betrayed by those who had vetted her. But, this had all taken place years before, so there had been no glaring connections to follow up. James would not risk his kingdom for many years and there was no reason to suspect Sherlock would be able to pull himself out of the rubbish he'd made of his life at that time. Molly was actually one of the few people who seemed to be willing to give Sherlock any kindness.

Detective Sargent Lestrade and Molly Hooper had managed to pull his brother into sobriety and some measure of responsibility. At the time, Mycroft was appreciative of any small favor on Sherlock's behalf. He'd run off to America at one point and Mycroft had washed his hands of the whole affair. He'd assumed his brother was dead by the time his influence had grown enough to have the power to track him down to some Florida backwater. He was returned to England, alive but addicted and his mind addled to such a degree that Mycroft was unsure if he would ever find more than a disappointing end.

He dashed a small fortune into treatment facilities. Sherlock preferred to sleep with fleas and commune with rats than admit he needed help. It was a terrible time for Sherlock and it was probably harder still on Mycroft, who genuinely wanted to see Sherlock take his place among the ravens. He'd wanted to be able to introduce Sherlock as his equal, not shamefully admit that he was here to collect him from another of his disastrous whims. Mycroft had tried so hard.

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade had been the fundamental beginning of the bridge toward Sherlock finding his light. John Watson could be called his turning point, but the other two and in fact a hair-brained but lovable older woman who Sherlock had met in the colonies had done the impossible. If not for them, there never would have been a John Watson to whisk Sherlock into an off-beat nearly normal moment in life.

Moriarty had never shown his face before. He had never made himself known to Sherlock. They had no idea that he'd been making small overtures toward Sherlock Homes until the night his brother had deemed it necessary to challenge the wits of that cabbie. Thank heavens John had surreptitiously put a stop to that evening's possible outcome.

Mycroft was never so pleased in his life that he had _not_ managed to intimidate someone. His brother could have died due to his meddling in this case. It truly disconcerted him when John had turned to him calmly and inquired about his motives. The man had just shot someone, and cool and innocent as snow, turned and asked a government employee if his inquiries toward Sherlock where what…honorable? At that point, Mycroft was highly intimidated. Doctor Watson had shocked the British Government enough that he'd thought of hiring John himself. The two of them, Sherlock and the doctor, had strolled off laughing and planning dinner as if life could not get any more amusing.

John never seemed fooled by the Holmes bluster and yawl. He at once reassessed Mycroft and had on occasion volunteered many helpful suggestions, most of which Mycroft had heartily ignored. John had shamed him, included him, and actually become part of his family without any fanfare or sentimental exchanges. He was gone now and Mycroft hated to admit how much he would regret not making an overture that final night.

Of course he'd backed off the security detail, there were texts flying that night with indecision. John had met someone directly after Sherlock had left him. By the time Mycroft had set aside time to personally review the security tapes, his people's faces already were filled with disaster. First what took place in 221B would never be known because every camera in a five block radius suddenly stopped functioning.

Second, John didn't even bother to ditch his security detail that morning. Mycroft could find no fault in their actions. One man spent time in hospital because he'd tried to save John Watson. The other had notified Mycroft seconds after the doctor hit the water. Mycroft had petulantly demanded that they recover his body, for Sherlock. All of it was to no avail. John Watson had killed again with all the efficiency he had always displayed. This time his victim had definitely not deserved to die.

Mycroft, was in some ways, glad that John had not been recovered from the water so far. He dreaded his brother being unable to part with, well, _all_ of his doctor. Father had been odd about trophies. He especially liked skulls and had even brought one home to Sherlock once. He remembered Mummy screaming the words "a human skull for a seven year old boy…"

Father had immediately offered to bring the next one home to Mycroft, as if a fifteen-year-old boy may be in greater need of such a gift. Mycroft had declined father's kind offer, and hoped Sherlock would grow bored of Mr. Fellows soon. Mr. Fellows had been the only clean thing in Sherlock's suitcase upon his return from America. Sherlock certainly had not returned clean.

Mycroft would not have put it past Sherlock for a second to avidly display a matching bookend. He could see his brother introducing all future possible flat-mates to his dear friends, Mr. Fellows and Dr. Watson.

John probably would have known this and somehow weighted himself in such a way to guarantee he was not found. If the two of them had not been in the middle of such a row though and John had died, Mycroft wouldn't have put it past John to have approved of such a plan. John was an odd little man at times. He seemed to get Sherlock's sense of humor in ways that baffled Mycroft.

He'd seen John angry only a few times but the quiet control of it concerned him. He always wondered what would happen if John actually lost control. He wondered if the most lethal player was John or James. He'd concluded it was James. John had too many chivalrous notions of fair to beat James.

Mycroft knew of James Moriarty, but had greatly underestimated his power. He'd seemed like such a cocky little braggart, until just recently. Sherlock had caught his notice. He'd tried to woo Sherlock for twenty years and they had barely noted him. James and Sherlock had begun together at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned. They had been enemies but in a strange way, they had been much more. They had historical family alliances on opposing ends of the law, yet they both managed to always think themselves above the law, even above death or losing.

If they had ever aligned on the same side, good or evil, nothing could have stopped them from changing the world. If James had made his move earlier, what would Sherlock have become? Would he have been happier as some advisor to a monarch less noble than Mycroft's? Were they really that different when you looked at the whole?

Mycroft contemplated parallels. There were similarities, though intention must be weighed carefully. Government sought to protect its people and its resources, which was actually the same thing James did for his own people. Molly was certainly never in any danger from Jim Moriarty. Was she in fact protected?

Jim killed innocent people. Mycroft sent men into danger every day, knowing some would not return.

Moriarty earned his money by stealing, swindling, threatening, harassing, and was an unpredictable sociopath.

Mycroft grimaced and thought about what happened to those who didn't pay their taxes. Sherlock was notorious for forgetting. He'd had some rather heated dealings with HMRC whilst on the wrong end and though he'd thrown money and experts at it to make certain issues go away for his brother, if he hadn't been Mycroft Holmes, who knows where the difficulty would have ended. Sherlock certainly was not capable of mediation on his own behalf.

If all fundamental stewing about right and wrong and loyalty were removed from the picture, Sherlock might have found some measure of satisfaction and happiness within James Moriarty's kingdom. God knows he was born to be a pirate, or an art thief, or a cat-burglar. He demonstrated those skills every time he broke into Mycroft's office, just for fun. How would they have ever stopped him if he'd turned on them?

"Oh, bloody…"

He would have turned, if not for John.

Neither of the cabbies pills had tested as fatal. He'd never told Sherlock this fact. He'd hidden it from all eyes actually. It was for the best should anyone question the shooter's intent or ever come forward to identify the good doctor. Only now did this fact become significant. Moriarty provided the pills.

If Sherlock won or lost, he would have been unconscious within fifteen minutes. Both men would have been collected by Moriarty's entourage. The fate of the cabbie could be easily imagined because he'd served his purpose. But, Sherlock's fate may have gone any number of routes. Most of the probable outcomes would have included a choice between death and joining a certain kingdom.

The night at the pool, was probably a similar scenario. Sherlock brought Jim the missile plans like a gift.

Moriarty brought him his fifth pip as insurance. Things didn't go as smoothly as planned. John had done the unexpected. Moriarty had never intended to kill Sherlock. He'd wanted something else. If not, there was no purpose to the entire bomb game.

"I threw away thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play," Jim had said.

Lestrade was Sherlock's handler for Mycroft.

What if Molly was Sherlock's handler for Jim?

John had spoiled Moriarty's games. John had filled the place of friend before Jim got done showing off. Only then did Jim's games really mean to harm Sherlock. Jim hoped to offer Sherlock what neither of them had ever had. One true friend was the reason, and plain little Dr. Watson had beaten Jim. Jim had made Sherlock's reputation with his insane little puzzles and when he lost, only then did he want to take it all away.

Jim's cell had been covered with writing, but only one word was ever written. Were all these actions some sort of perverse love-letter? Could all these actions be as simple as Jim seeking love from a man who had been diagnosed as incapable of understanding the word?

Jim went so far as to lie to the world. He arranged the three break-ins and the talk of the key-code in an enormous and elaborate scheme to win Sherlock from Dr. Watson. Jim could have won anyone he'd wanted with his brains, money and power. Why would he set his sights on Sherlock? What could he gain?

If you own the world, what is left to want? Sherlock was something Jim could not have. Then John showed up, older, damaged, boring and yet Sherlock loved him.

**_All the king's money and power and brawn could not steal Sherlock's heart from his John. _**

When it didn't work, he decided to destroy them both, like a scorned woman. Love is the most vicious motivator in the world. Could it be unrequited love that destroyed Jim?

It obviously destroyed John.

_Jim wins now. He has burned the heart out of my brother. _

John had been Sherlock's Raven. The raven has left the tower. Sherlock will fall to the sea.

Sweat beaded on Mycroft's upper lip. Visions of Sherlock Moriarty clouded his eyes with tears. They are searching for his heir. What happens when the heir is found?

Damn John Watson for opening this door. He brought this plague upon Sherlock. John taught him to love. Mycroft cursed the man for his death. He knew it was an irrational anger; John had no way of knowing. If only Mycroft had the presence of mind to explain or figure this out sooner. If only Sherlock had seen this before he lost all will to fight what may be his undoing.

Mycroft turned to the last page in the file. It was a handwritten note from his brother. Of course it was written in their own childish 'pirate' code. Mycroft's fingers trembled as he quickly translated it. It was a simple, if unknown, substitution and shift. It would only take an expert a few hours to extract any message written this way, but it did keep random prying eyes at bay.

**_Dearest Brother,_**

**_I leave this file in your care. I never suspected her. I leave her fate in your hands, unable to justify any action against her or in her favor. I am sure you will ask her to meet with you and have an extensive interview with Miss Hooper. Did she play us? Is she naïve or calculating? I suppose her willingness to cooperate will speak for itself, will it not? _**

**_She did save my life, as you know. This never would have mattered without her and I would be long dead without her intervention and recently dead without her assistance. It may be of no matter, but my indecision toward her and her roll in John's death must be weighed against my own guilt in his resolution to leave me. _**

**_Perhaps, he could not survive the thought of my loss again. Maybe my words and actions were what spurred his hopeless end. I always feared I would break him and it would seem that he no longer was sure of reality. She should have never told him. He should have been stronger before he was told. If I had truly believed he would die, what would it have harmed us for his last moment to be spent with me? I can honestly think of no punishment worse than living without him._**

**_His note makes no sense to me; he knew I was not dead at the moment he left it for us to find. I have contemplated it in every possible permutation and all I can imagine it to mean was that his final hours took place in a fugue of irrationality. I will never know. I don't deserve to know. I never deserved him. _**

**_If I wish to wallow in truths here, I never deserved you either, my brother. You have been my life long dearest guide and the most worthy arch-enemy anyone could hope for in life. We were so enjoyably engaged with the pursuit to unravel each other; I fear we may have succeeded. _**

**_It is my hope that I will find the will to return to you someday. Have faith in me. Perhaps it will make the difference at some unknown moment of despair. I freely admit that I embark on this task with little hope and mountains of desolation. I don't care what happens to me now. Only the work matters. You tried to teach me that caring was not an advantage and as always I should have listened. Forgive me for doubting that I broke that rule in your heart._**

**_I know you always cared. Things are so much clearer in retrospect, are they not? _**

**_Watch over Mrs. Hudson. She will be terribly bored without John and me to give her a bit of intrigue. Perhaps you may find some small role for her to play. You know she is inexorable in her loyalty to me as I shall forever remain towards her. _**

**_Mummy is not upset with my intent. I have explained this to her and she has opened her own limited and ancient contacts for my assistance. I will be in touch through her. Those near you may be compromised. I realize you think it insanity to utilize a bunch of old duffers, but I assure you they are not as far removed from us as you may assume. The elderly are like the homeless, invisible and numberless and yet they have a wealth of sly tricks we would never think to employ._**

**_Do not let Lestrade come to harm. Find that bastard who is still under deep cover in his department. I wish it were Anderson, but it honestly is not. Sally hates me, but I have always trusted her to be objective, stupid from time to time but unwilling to compromise. She may be mistaken but she is never malicious._**

**_I want to say this, but there is never space for words between us. You believe me to be saying goodbye to you. I am, but only as a precaution. I have disgraced you all our lives and you have put up with all the hateful things I have done, knowing it is my own self-loathing that made me take the actions I did. I said I don't care about myself and I know that frightens you, but caring is not an advantage. You are not an advantage, Mycroft. Deduce that._**

**_I have never doubted you, Mycroft. You have always been right. None of this was your fault. This time, life or death, I swear I will make you proud of me this once. _**

**_Please don't torture Molly. She responds to kindness. It's how he won her and how I probably lost her. Do remember that she may not be a saint but she has been my savior. I can't help but believe that she truly lost John too. If you discover anything helpful, let Mummy know. Our mother is a wicked woman and she has more secrets then you will ever believe._**

**_Perhaps some distant Christmas, I will share some of her conspiracies and together we shall tease her unmercifully. I never did care for the pudding._**

**_Nevermore, Mycroft._**

**_With my deepest and truest respect,_**

**_Nevermore_**

Mycroft brought his handkerchief to his eyes. "Sherlock," he said softly almost like a prayer. He nodded, assuring himself that he did believe in his brother. Of course he'd never quite believe his brother would not find some way to either get out of his promise or make the fact a living hell for Mycroft if he did keep it, but that wasn't important right now. The code-word 'nevermore' was only used among the ravens and he was not handing him a maudlin suicide declaration, but a promise. He would do what he could to come back and despite his loss and his own grief; he'd taken the time to offer Mycroft both forgiveness and hope.

Someday there would be a Christmas dinner again.

Someday Sherlock would take his place at his side and fight with him to save the world.

Until that time, Mycroft would believe.

"Winstonia, I need Miss Hooper rounded up at once please," He said pushing the button on the intercom.

"Shall I send her an appointment card, Sir?" came the immediate reply.

Mycroft smiled and serenely instructed, "I think I am in the mood to surprise her, my dear. Will you see to it?"

"Yes, of course. She should be here within the hour."

Mycroft reclined in his chair and stretched languidly. He would see to it that Sherlock would be a Raven and not Moriarty's heir. He hoped Miss Hooper would have something of value to contribute to his effort.

* * *

. /englishwiz/library/names/etymology_of_last_

**Moriarty**/Moirerdagh/Muirihertie: Irish Occupational Name...from very old Celtic terms muir =sea and cheardach =good navigator. Settled in County Kerry, on both sides of Castlemaine Harbor. The name is an anglicized version of Muircheardach or O'Muircheardach, with a literal meaning of skilled navigator of the sea. Variations include McMoirerdagh, and McMuirihertie. Requested by: Erina Moriarty

**Moran** is a variant of the English and French surname Morant, which is an old given name of unknown etymology, but believed to mean 'steadfast' or 'enduring.' When of Irish descent, Moran is derived by Anglicizing O' Morain, (descendant of Moran), which usually has its accent on the first syllable, as opposed to the English and French version's second syllable accent.

For further reading on what a** Molly House** was, see: wiki/Molly_house

.

Some of you have asked if I realize that I have an under-theme of water. First yes, I do realize. I never tell one story. There is always the high-concept plot, the side-plots and at least one undercurrent. Symbols are always important and are always a key. Many people don't enjoy reading my stories because they are not deep readers. The Holmes fandom has a huge percentage of readers who honestly amaze me with the subtle things they do pick up on.

I don't wave my sign on tumbler so I realize I am on very few, if any Rec lists. That means you have stumbled here on your own, made a discovery, and you are not only still here, some of you have been kind enough to review, PM, follow or favorite. That means the world to me.

I write complicated stories, I know. I try very hard not to waste your time. I don't feel writing these tales is a waste of my time either. That is because of you, dear reviewers. Sometimes I manage to open a door to you, make you think of something in a new way or make you feel like you need to comment back to me. With most fiction, the story is long finished before the readers ever see it. Fan Fiction has opened the door to writers. Anyone can be an author here. Anyone can offer opinion.

That makes the time spent worth it. I have learned more than I ever thought possible in this place and though Thanksgiving is a traditionally American concept holiday that seriously has some much darker bubbles just under the surface, in its purest form, it is a moment to take the time to be thankful for opportunities and life experiences.

Family is most often mentioned as the thing we begin this silly meal celebrating our thankfulness. I too am thankful for the people I am related to by blood, marriage and fate. But I want to take a moment to also mention that I am thankful to this whole concept of fan-fiction. I feel this is also a family and though we may be scattered all over the globe, may have never spoken in person, may disagree about many things, we still find a form of family thanks to this place. We put aside politics, borders, problems, and busy lives to come here and help each other, form friendships, and somehow become family.

My heartfelt thanks to my reviewers, FF friends, my critics, the authors who have given me many hours of entertainment and most of all every single reader who has found me. I also offer thanks to those of you who put up with my arrogance and still manage to teach me Write from Wrong. (sigh, yes the homophone was on purpose, grin.)

I have decided to list this story as complete. Book two still has many chapters to go, but Book one is finished and as I put it up on Ao3, I will class them separately. FFN works a bit differently so I wanted to keep them hooked together. Please don't panic – we still have far to travel. Howlynn


	32. Chapter 32 - 9 By Breezes Blown

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
**Realm**: _Sherlock_  
**Story Title**: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. 32/9 By Breezes Blown  
**Summary**:_ Sherlock deals with his actions in an odd fashion. He travels to the home of some family friends. _

**Character/Relationships**: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Mendacity II chapter 32/9

By Breezes Blown

**_Away! away! for I will fly to thee,_**

**_Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,_**

**_But on the viewless wings of Poesy,_**

**_Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:_**

**_Already with thee! tender is the night,_**

**_And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,_**

**_Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays_**

**_But here there is no light,_**

**_Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown_**

**_Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways._**

**_John Keats. 1795–1821, Ode to a Nightingale_**

When Sherlock left Molly he knew he had been cruel. He spent the next few days insuring she would always think he was a bastard.

He knew he had treated her abominably, and he knew she would never forgive him. She would not tell on him either. She would not play the woman scorned and reveal he was alive to anyone ever again. It would probably cross her mind, and if Sherlock were the only thing betrayal would render of consequence, at this point, she might tend her bitter stew long enough to seek revenge.

But, she'd seen the havoc one slip had wrought. She had arched a blacksmith's hammer with unskilled hope and brought down ruin upon the delicate molten sword. Molly Hooper would have every justification to hurt Sherlock and even if she were not born with the blood of Satan himself, she had no need to ever be loyal to Sherlock again.

That silly notion of hers, that one day she might win his heart, by default, tenacity, favor or pity, would be a pyre of dry optimism just touched with flame. She would try to fight it, those small smoldering places in her heart labeled with all the things she thinks she sees in him, but in the end the fire would win.

She would watch the flames dance and feel the pain of all those pointless dreams. But because of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, she would watch her heart burn in silence. She would stand in the hot coals and see that she had only loved a monster. As all fires cool, so would her anger. She was practical. She'd find some way to blame herself, until one day; she would only consider Sherlock Holmes to be a hard lesson learned.

She would seek a companion more like John Watson. (Not that there were any who would ever fill his shoes.) Molly would never fool herself into loving another Sherlock Holmes. He smiled at the idea that someday she would run across some poor sap who wore jumpers and could see her beauty and look beyond her appalling taste in clothing and decorative furnishings and maybe he would be the most boring bloke to walk the earth, but if he treated her as she deserved, Sherlock would not have to kill him.

He wished he could have somehow made her understand why he had to do what he did. He had watched her big brown eyes go dull and then flash with fear. He knew he'd done the right thing, even if it makes him sick to think of her alone.

He hated the deed and himself at that moment. Of course he did, he'd sought comfort and intentionally delivered her agony for kindness, treachery for faith. John would have been cross with him for what he did to her. John would have braced himself in fury, glared at him, attempted to explain to Sherlock that he had again disappointed his blogger, and probably would have had to take several unscheduled London strolls to control his desire to toss Sherlock out of a first floor window, repeatedly, until he felt calm.

God, how Sherlock wished to see John shout at him. He bargained with the universe for one last time, as he slipped into a cab and began his penance. He was off to see Mummy and her friends. He would never again see John. He had promised his brother to become part of his stodgy old puffer world filled with the ancient steam engines of the boring and unable to change. They expect and restrict and force all the little engines to follow along on shiny tracks. It did not matter now, because he was already nothing and it would be so easy. "But here there is no light," Sherlock whispered.

The cab driver watched him and finally ventured, "You look like someone."

"I take cabs frequently. Probably met at some point," Sherlock volunteered.

The cabby shrugged, "Could be right. I was thinking you looked like that dead bloke. My mistake."

Sherlock's head rested against the frosty glass and his eyes closed against the dawn. The cabbie, unfortunately not a serial killer bent on games of destruction, was thankfully willing to provide his service silently. Sherlock's thoughts imagined John alive and the two of them like they were before.

He would eventually have made John understand. John would have ultimately sat down at some random moment of inconvenience, worn out from his many days of not speaking to Sherlock, and turned his gentle hesitant eyes toward his flat-mate and said, "Okay. Take me through it, if you don't mind, because I can't look at that face any longer."

There would have been a little side spat of Sherlock pretending not to understand what was wrong with his face and John making sarcastic insulting remarks he didn't actually mean. They would have traded the familiar witty piss-shots, had a chuckle neither of them could contain as the tension between them dissipated with infusions of tea and maybe take-away. Sherlock would have agreed to John's food selection, letting him take point for the needed discussion. It would make John feel in control and when his stomach was bulging and he snuck the top button open on his trousers, he would be ready to hear logic.

"It is very simple; a child could understand that I am a monster. You died because of that, John, and I would have done anything to save you. Do you realize how difficult it is to admit that I was wrong?"

"I imagine it must rate right up there with giving Mycroft a foot massage, while smiling and asking his opinion on tobacco ash?"

"Then you do understand. Good," Sherlock would say as if the discussion was concluded.

John would roll out his patient dealing-with-Sherlock face and carefully explain that he understood the difficulty of Sherlock admitting he was wrong but wanted a more detailed description of what he was wrong about. John might even prove he isn't dead with some small touch or gesture. A kiss would be Sherlock's wish. He could still taste John and just because he'd said no, did not mean he had not taken in each sensation like light into his secret soul.

Probably a kiss would be too much to ask and John would more likely take the monster label and turn it into some clever form of complimentary insult, as only John could pull off with such a straight face while his eyes twinkled with conviviality.

He took a deep breath of the cab-scented air as if he were about to actually speak. In his mind he explained to John and it faded the grey morning light and a non-existent place became his reality for the moment. "I harmed you because I let you love me. I should have never allowed you to think I was human."

"You _are_ human," he would interject.

"No. I tried to be better for you but I only damaged your life for my effort. Not much cop in it for you, this wanting to fix me thing. I won't make the same mistake with Molly. If she hates me, she won't try to end it all for me or because of me or by trying to save me. This has been hard on her. It has made her fragile."

"So, let me get this correct. You know she's a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman, and she's devastated right this minute. Her fiancé died and she probably blames herself and you admit she is in a fragile state. And your solution to that is? Seriously? You shag her like a brass nail and hand her a nice tip of blame and think you played a blinder?" Ghost John would be leaning toward him, elbows on his knees, hands clasp in the center with his two index fingers meeting and all but wagging at Sherlock.

Sherlock's breathing hitches to a stop in pleasure as he looks around and reaches his finger out to feel the smooth leather of his chair. He can touch things. This picture is so clear and he is lost in the fact that his palace has finally made an important leap. He's building on to the palace so that John may live in this amalgam of the best things and somehow he'd crossed into sensation. He'd been attempting it for years with limited success. Baker Street, a present tense John, warm fires and fairy lights belong in this addition.

Sherlock doesn't realize his lips move as he answers New John, "I needed that memory and I didn't casually shag her or treat her with anything other than respect during, I will have you know."

John shakes his head and wets his lower lip and then gasps, "That? That is not respect. There is no way even you—"

" I loved her with all I could give, even if she won't look at it that way. I know that is true… and maybe one day the big picture will seep into her and she will know as well." Sherlock interrupts.

"How can you be such a selfish dick?" John shouts in frustration.

Sherlock speaks calmly, " I was not a selfish lover. I hope I wasn't. I was rather beyond desperate the first round, but it wasn't just sex, John. I have not cried in front of anyone but you since I was a child. I gave her the last tears I will ever shed. I gave her the very last of me."

"Okay, you really are thinking this was some kindness? Sherlock, you gave me the same kind of…"

" I couldn't give you anything, so I donated all the last good -bits to Molly. Forgive me, John. I know she belonged to you, but you did abandon her which allowed my prior claim to reinstate. That isn't the whole picture though." Sherlock takes several deep breaths as if he's having a small panic attack.

"I'm listening? You brought me here. Say something you mean." New John won't look at him. He stares into the fire chewing his lip.

Sherlock sits quietly until John finally turns his head back to him and gestures for Sherlock to continue. He looks into New John's eyes and leans forward, begging his best friend's replica to understand. " She was all I had left of you and I gave her the only joy I had in me to share. Yes, I manipulated her into thinking very little of me afterward. I pretended to be rather insane. I gave her my best bolt hole and Mycroft will take her into protective custody soon. I may have exaggerated his intent towards her, but in the end, she will win him over. Please comprehend John, you are not here and I have to carry on. It is a fate far worse than boredom and far crueler to me. She will never again see me as anything but ordinary, but that view will protect her. Her anger will give her all the strength she needs now."

"You should have told her the truth," New John argued.

"Did I not? This is my truth. I am nothing close to human now. I am trapped in this hateful transport and I will burn the world until I avenge what he did to me. To us. It led here, John. It all led us to this truth. You hated me so much, you left me. I was wrong. I know it. I wish I had said yes, but I didn't and I can't change that. I can't change what you did. You sentenced me to this punishment. My only reward will be when I can finally seek you again. Perhaps, by that point you…will have forgiven me."

"If that were true, why not end it? Kill Sherlock Holmes for real this time? Why bother with your useless explanations to me? I'm not here," New John asked.

"Yes you are. I feel you. I accept your judgment, John. You didn't want me to die. You wanted me to live in torture. You want me to live what I put you through and I will die insane and old if it means you are satisfied. I would follow you now if you would let me. This second. I would happily be boiled alive if physical pain would appease you. I am afraid to die, for the first time in my life, John. If I die now, I will never see you again, because you will not have forgiven me. If I die now, I go to hell. "

"You don't believe in hell, last time I checked. And if you didn't escape, you'd probably take the place over. Run all the demons out with your bloody experiments at the very least." John leaned back and smiled at Sherlock in a shy appraising way. His finger went to his lips and he looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time. "So, this? All of this. Our whole flat, and is it Christmas for some reason? Bit early don't you think?"

Sherlock watched New John and bask in his details. New John's chest rose and fell as if breathing and his hair stuck up in the back like when he'd just showered. New John's eyes were the perfect shade of a summer's twilight sky and his fingernails were short and clean befitting a doctor.

Sherlock licked his lips and spoke softly, "This is my…not-hell. I know hell exists now, John. All I have to do is open my eyes. Hell is boring. It's real and you know it is."

John snorted slightly and his focus returned to Sherlock. "Why am I here Sherlock? Why are you doing this? You left me. I told you I would do this, if you didn't take me with you. You told me I was useless. You decided my purpose was over and I gave you all the freedom of the world? Why am I in the famous 'Mind Palace?' " John raised his arms and wrote sarcastic quotation marks in the air.

Sherlock tilted his head, "I thought that would be obvious. I am taking you with me, the only way I can."

"Oh. I see. So, what do I do here, exactly?" John inquired, wrinkling his forehead.

"It's heaven, John. You can do anything you want. Read dull-plotted predictable novels, or make tea, or take naps…you always liked those things," Sherlock offered helpfully.

"Can I leave?"

"Oh," Sherlock sighed as every bit of available air escaped his lungs. His heart throbbed and pain seared him. Even his John-recreation didn't want to stay. What was to be said to that? He didn't want him to go. John was safe here, or at least some small version of him was safe. Sherlock nodded, and whispered, "If you wish to."

"Good answer," John said standing up. He stuck his bottom toward the fire and sighed in pleasure. "Just so we get this straight, Sherlock, just because I'm inside your head, doesn't mean you control me. Understand?"

Sherlock paled but nodded silently. That was a surprising attitude for a fabrication of his imaginings.

"There are rules. My rules. And…you will follow them. If you want to come back here," John said with authority.

"It is my head. You're going to make rules in my head? God, I thought Mycroft was arrogant…" Sherlock saw the look on John's face and stopped speaking.

"Choices, genius. This one is all yours," John said low and dangerous.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Go on?"

"No lies. You lie to me, and I lock that door."

"I lie to you all the time. You rarely notice," Sherlock said, unable to help rolling his eyes and sighing with disgust as he looks away from the mental apparition.

"Really? Care to test my word? Testing my word is why we're here, I believe. I do hope you remember that I don't just have access to this room, Sherlock. There is an entire Palace for me to play in now. Your palace. And you can only stop me by sending me away. This time, you have to try harder. I'm in your head. I will _know_ if you lie. There will also be no more of your recreational pharmaceuticals. Not on my watch." John shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn't care one way or the other.

Sherlock is suddenly aware that he is somewhat afraid of New John. He chews his lip and frowns.

"You should be afraid, Sherlock, because if you keep me, you are mad as a box of frogs. Think it over; you can let me know…" John said and then he and the flat washed away and Sherlock is aware that he's being jostled.

"Hey! Mate. You're here, I say. Meters still running for as long as you want to keep mumbling, but I got an hour's drive back to London. Jeeze, I always gotta catch the freaks, don't I? "

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around. "Must have dozed on you. Apologies."

"Yeah. Bad dream then I suppose," the cabbie said in relief as he opened the boot to get the luggage.

Sherlock settled the fare, adding a generous tip because the man hadn't talked the whole time and he must have been flying to have arrived here so quickly.

The cabbie gave him a bit of a second look as he counted, raised his eyebrows in surprise and tucked his cash away. "Look, you got some place to go, mate? I mean, this is in the bloody middle of nowhere. It's a dangerous spot to be dumped out, you know. I mean, there's these stories and shite. I could take you on to town?"

Sherlock smiled, set his bag and violin down and looked back. He turned back to the man and asked, "Surely you don't believe in those old tales of crossroads, do you? Modern man like you? Sun's up, you're perfectly safe," he said spreading his hands as if to ask what there could be to fear.

The man chuckled slightly but regarded the high impenetrable hedgerows and looked back at his fare with less surety. "Yeah, I mean it is all bollocks, I'm sure. I'd just feel bad if…"

Sherlock took a step back towards the man and rubbed his hands together as if about to sit down at a feast. "You wouldn't be tempted by…shall we say an arrangement…would you? Place is only dangerous to those who are willing for it to be a place of corruption. It depends on what you want, of course, but money, fame, torture of enemies are all pretty standard. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you've heard of me? First day on the job and I'd love to make a sale. My boss is rather a tyrant about our first sales." Sherlock smiled broadly, knowing the expression didn't fit his face in a pleasant way.

"Mad bugger…"The cabbie slammed the boot and without another word, got in the car and locked the door, a look of fear on his face. He clumsily put the car in gear, not taking his eyes off Sherlock and the engine sputtered slightly in protest of the rough treatment.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the road, watching the cabbie watch him in his mirrors. Sherlock waited until the cabbie had to look forward for a second and then quickly hastened into the secret angle cut pass-through of the hedge rows. He waited for a count of three and the satisfying sound of the cab breaking on rewarded his little prank. The car idled for a few seconds and then the driver's window rolled down.

"Hey. Hey mister? You there?"

Sherlock snickered into his sleeve but stayed put. The cab driver didn't take long to decide he was not interested in examining or solving ghost stories. He knew what he'd heard about this place and now he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Sherlock picked up his suitcase and his violin and took the short cut up to the back of the house. He'd just started over a low stone wall when a voice unexpectedly said, "I suppose you think that's funny, harassing poor hardworking cabbies like that?"

Sherlock spun around. He searched for the source of the voice. "Well, you shot one," Sherlock replied.

"That's true. It was a bit funny I suppose." His laugh began with that typical deep gasp John always took just before he bubbled into hysterics.

Sherlock joined him and added, "Bit ill-advised, but he'd already recognized me. This makes a much better story."

When the moment passed he listened carefully. "John?" Sherlock said grinning and turning. "Where are you? I can hear you."

"God, and you're brilliant. Hey Genius? In. Your. Head," the clipped reply plainly arrived through his ears, not his thoughts. "Change your mind about keeping me?"

Sherlock stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes open looking around. "No," he whispered.

"Didn't expect that? Don't worry, everything else is real, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffs and looks in the direction from which the sound seems to originate. "You got out?"

There is a chuckle then the voice of New John said, " You know, I found my way around a bloody desert with people shooting at me just fine. Did you really think I wouldn't be able to navigate your little castle of doom and gloom? Jesus, was there anything besides tea you actually liked about me..or maybe respected?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock said nothing more as he stomped across the dew-damp field, certain a shadow of some sort followed two steps behind and to his right.

He soon arrived at the back door of the stone house he'd played at as a child. The Wheatley's had long ago been quirky, but Mummy adored them. His shoes and the lower half of his trousers were soggy and the rest of him had attracted a battalion of gnats that were about to drive him insane.

He knocked. A man with very grey eyes and bushy white eyebrows peeped out the door and spent several seconds peering about randomly as if he were expecting snipers at every corner.

"Mr. Wheatley, it's me. Merletta's son? I threw up on you when I was four. You snuck me a glass of the wrong eggnog?"

"What? Blood and sand you got tall. What the hell are you doing out there?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he fake smiled and said, "I am looking for my mother? Thought she might have been captured by a garden troll."

"Good God man? She's in the damned kitchen and we are not infested with gnomes. Trolls were killed off ages ago. You've got us confused with the Dorchesters up the road. Damned things crawling all over everything there. I offered to loan them my Enfield and they acted like I was the bleeding lunatic? I think they rather like the vicious things over there. Aye?" Mr. Wheatley proclaimed in confidence.

Sherlock looked off in the direction Mr. Wheatley pointed. "Perhaps they do, sir. Always were a weird lot."

"Oh, so you're the smart one then. Well that's a relief, I tell you; I thought they were sending the crazy one up to us. Can't stand that one, you know. I'll tell you this, lad, those bleeding-heart Dorchesters won't think it's such a grand thing, letting the cursed gnomes run amuck, once one bites them. Bloody things can rot your arm off, just from a little nip. " He moved his eyebrows as if everyone in the universe with any intelligence would agree with him.

"I have heard that, sir. If you could just unlock the door, perhaps you could tell me more astounding observances without the hindrance of all this glass and wood?" Sherlock said politely, though his friendliness was now crashed and he was about to strangle an old prat if he didn't get out of his way.

"Oh, yes, of course." Mr. Wheatley commenced to fiddling with the lock as if he'd never seen it before in his life. Sherlock had his hand in his pocket, clasping his lock picks when finally the lock was thrown and the door opened.

Sherlock brushed past him. " Smart one. Crazy one. Sorry to disappoint." Sherlock grumbled as he quickly strode up the hallway dropping his bags and bee-lined into the kitchen.

"Mummy?" he said as he entered the chaotic kitchen.

"There you are, dear. You remember my dead son don't you, Eloise?" she said peeking up from her tile work. The kitchen table was covered in brightly colored stepping stones, and unfinished ones and bits of tile everywhere.

"Oh it's been a long time, since you ran off to Hollywood to be a star or some such, but of course I do." She winked at his mother and added, "You could probably turn this whole resurrection thing to an advantage. Start a religion or something? Good money there."

"Mrs. Wheatley, delighted." Sherlock said kindly and bowed slightly.

"I say, Eloise, no need to worry dear, its Sherlock, not that bloody Mycroft. Oh sorry, Ducks, but your older boy is six-pence short of a shilling. Say, did you scare the taxi, like I showed you as a lad?"

Sherlock smiles up at Mr. Wheatley with genuine affection all forgiven now that Mycroft was the crazy one and says gently, "Of course, sir. You would have tanned my tatties if I had skived off." He replied using Mr. Wheatley's old phrase from when Sherlock had been here as a child.

Mr. Wheatley smiled and put his hand on Sherlock and pointed, "See what I mean? Never forgets a thing, this one. Keeps up tradition. Good man!"

Eloise Wheatley moans, "Oh God, you didn't? Do you know how hard it is to get anyone to come here for dinner? They all want to leave before the sun goes down. You and your blasted foolery, Harper. And recruiting young Sherlock – God knows what will be said now. We'll be haunted next thing you know!"

Mr. Wheatley looks about the kitchen in innocence as his wife glares at him. "Think I'm on for a spot of tea," he announced without offering it to anyone else.

"Oh, darling. I am so sorry about your poor little doctor." Mummy said, making Sherlock's exact fake frown face.

Well, Sherlock knew this would come and he stood all the pitiful comments for almost an entire minute before he aloofly stated, "Thank you for your kindness, but I prefer to focus on the task before us, if you don't mind."

Mummy beamed with sly mirth. "That's my boy. I knew you'd be just fine. I told your brother that if your own death didn't stop you, why would poor John's?"

Sherlock kept his face as still as possible, "Yes, Mummy. I will be quite alright. But, we must remember that Mycroft has been of prodigious value in this so far. He does mean well."

His mother looked impressed, "Getting on a bit better, I see. It is about time, you know. You will keep your promise to him?"

"He told you?"

Mrs. Holmes raises one eyebrow at her son, "He didn't have to. I may be old, but don't think for a second I am not still your Mother."

Sherlock smirked and said quietly, "Olive Juice."

Mummy nodded and winked at him. "Yes, I think a Bloody-Mary would make breakfast all around. Harper Wheatley? Stop pretending to drink tea and bring that vodka over here. We are celebrating."

"I don't know what you mean, Ducks. This is just my cure for the dreaded lurgy." Harper says defensively, looking to Sherlock for help.

Sherlock carefully keeps his face cloaked and yawns to hide his reaction to a comment in his ear, "Vodka at half-seven? I like your mother already."

Sherlock clears his throat and replies, "I'll have a bit of that, Mr. Wheatley. Preventative measures. Hear the lurgy is unseasonably early this year."

* * *

_In case you didn't get the reference – if you say 'Olive Juice' you hear that word. If you read lips it looks the same as - I love you. It is easy to misunderstand things and that point is made several times in this chapter. _

_Merletta means black-bird._

_Want a treat? Listen to Mr. Cumberbatch read Ode to A Nightingale on Utube – John Keats wrote words that deserve that voice. _

_Dreaded lurgy - Invented and popularized by Spike Milligan on the Goon Show._


	33. Chapter 33 - 10 Mind over Matter

Mendacity chapter 33

Sherlock rolled over and searched his room. New John stood at the window and Sherlock noted that his opacity was incomplete from his jumper down. "John, you are fading. Is everything alright?"

John turned and smiled. "You are healing. Your grief has lessened and I… will fade."

Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position, "No. I can't do this. Not without you. Please don't leave me?"

His imaginary John shook his head and snorted slightly with amusement before his focus returned to the window. "I'm not really here. I can't leave until you are ready. It would be best for you to move on. You can't hide me forever. They may be old and unable to pass up a loo or work a mobile phone without their glasses, but they are not stupid. They know something is off about you. You have to stop sneaking around corners to talk to me, and in truth, if I am fading, that is a good sign."

"No. I need you." Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, it has been two months. I am not asking you to forget me. I am keeping my place in your mind palace, but we both know that I am not quite what you want. I am sorry. Life goes on and you will one day move on and that doesn't mean you will forget me, it just means that you have accepted—"

"I don't accept," Sherlock spat.

He stood up and moved near his apparition, careful not to touch him, yet his eyes filled with tears and his fingertips buzzed with the desire to reach out and cup John's face. He'd learned not to follow these impulses. John was not real, yet he could forget that fact so long as he kept his hands away. Watching his fingers pass through John had shattered his ability to pretend that New-John was as real as his three elderly companions. Oh the mirage was not perfect, he certainly noticed that nobody spoke to John or understood why Sherlock randomly chuckled at times, but seeing John let Sherlock's heart rest from the ever present guilt, anger and sorrow long enough to function.

"You must not fade away. Not now. The others depend on me. I won't say that they are incompetent, but neither are they capable of seeing this through if I am operating at less than full function. If you fade, it will distract me. If I am distracted, I may get them killed. Please." Sherlock looks away on the last word, knowing that he is arguing with himself alone doesn't diminish his humiliation that he is begging a small insane part of his mind to not get well.

"You know that I am dead. Time will do what it is meant to do. I have no power over this. Sherlock, I don't want you to mourn me at the expense of your sanity. Can't you understand that this," John said waving his hand between them, "Is not healthy? I am a tool for you to find peace. I am not and can't be your peace with the fact you are going to lose your mind."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in the dark room and his hands yank at his hair in frustration. "Then stop this unbearable transparent version. The moonlight is shining through you and if I have to look upon you in terror that one day I won't have you, I may as well let Mycroft lock me away right now. My sanity is the last thing I care about at this time. What does it even matter in the long run? It's bad enough I know I can never touch you again and will never know the taste of your skin. I can still feel you in my dreams…your lips, your heartbeat … in my dreams, you are warm. I…I would rather be insane and delusional than have to face … that I made a mistake that cost you your life. I don't have time for that kind of pain right now. I have followed your rules. If you leave me…" Sherlock trailed off, letting the unspoken threat play across John's face.

"You realize that you are threatening your own mind that if it chooses to heal, you will destroy it? That is probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say," New John said glaring up at his friend with that mother-hen fierce anger he'd so often turned on Sherlock when he was intentionally misbehaving.

"Possibly. Never-the-less, it is the truth. I hate this. We are eliminating the crumbs and I have let the meaty-bits slip away. This will take years at this rate. My plan was better."

"Your plan was suicide, Sherlock. Your plan had no possibility of success."

"Oh, it would have been quite successful. I can assure you that my goals would have been remarkably efficient in liquidating all his vital structural support. The web would be forever broken. It was faster and if I had simply gone on alone—"

"You'd be dead. Right now. You would actually be dead and have accomplished nothing!" John shouts in frustration.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and his lips part slightly as if he had just slapped a third nicotine patch on his arm as he sighs "God, yes."

John peeps up at him as if he's pleased Sherlock agrees with his assessment. "Yes and that would be a bit not—"

"I'd be with you. It would be over by now and I would be –"

"Bored! You would be bored with no escape. Death is boring, Sherlock."

"This is boring! Where… ever you are…isn't. Oh, John…I…I miss you. This phantom of you is all I have that makes this whole thing remotely bearable. How do I keep this up? I was at least a wasp in the web before. I am wasting my time freeing flies and tapping out false motions while the web grows stronger. I have to work my way." He has begun pacing with edgy energy.

John's voice goes calm and moderate, "There is no hurry now, mate. You were rushing because you wanted to go home. You were taking terrible risks and you know, some of what you did was more than a bit not good. I'm not saying they didn't deserve to suffer. But you know for a fact that there were several occasions that you…"

"That I what?" Sherlock slowed his pacing and focused his attention on John, trying to deduce an unchanging memory, yet forgetting for an instant that this John could only exude cues Sherlock's mind created.

"Liked it." John met his eyes for a moment then looked away, out the window again as if longing to be elsewhere.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and shrugged, "And?"

"And you may have not liked who came home to London. It changes you and not for the better." John's chin lifted and his lips jutted forward. Sherlock knew he had more he wanted to say, but was attempting to control how much he shared.

Sherlock folded his fingers and pretended to suddenly understand what John meant. "Oh. In other words, you would not have approved of me. If you were still alive, you would tell me that you were disappointed that I had ruthlessly murdered those upstanding pillars of humanity? You think I would bring that version back to London…perhaps home to you? Would my new found skills eventually fulfill Sally's prophetic musings on my nature? You think that I would find infamy more amusing than I did fame?"

John glances at Sherlock, taking his measure before he speaks softly the bombs of doubt. "I think, Sherlock, that you have a line that is more fluid than I ever realized and that this may, still, do you more harm than you wish to admit. Violence can be as addictive as any drug and it has the similar side-effect of always needing a little more to replicate the endorphin surge experienced previously."

"Is that how it works? Is that why you killed Jefferson Hope? For the thrill rather than necessity? Are you really that good of a shot or was it my mistake to think it mattered which of us you ended that night? Your vote of confidence is most treasured. The real John never doubted me nor I him."

John crosses his arms and takes a very deep calming breath, "Yeah, well, I'm not him, am I? And before you accuse me of groundless suspicion, don't forget where I am. You keep very detailed files in here. Benefit of the doubt is harder to give when I see it exactly as you remember it."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and his face blanks in aloof disdain for John's words. "Taking a shower."

By the time he was out and dressed, the adjoining door was open and three elderly but fit gentlemen had invaded his space though the sun was not yet up. John was no longer keeping vigil at the window. The smell of tea and bangers and old man grooming supplies assaulted his nose. "Gentlemen." Sherlock said in greeting before flopping casually in the last unoccupied chair.

"Heard you in here talking…we were up so decided to get an early start," Grady Pauley said casting a wink at one of the others. He looked toward Sherlock innocently but the challenge of 'who were you talking with' crackled in the air.

Sherlock sighed. "I was discussing our situation with Mycroft. We are both concerned that our endeavors, though successful, have been rather mundane considering the expense involved."

"But we knew that in the beginning we were only to target the non-essential branches, gather data without disrupting any major operations. That has worked. We know more now than we ever dreamed of obtaining," Grady said with just the beginning of controlled defensiveness in his voice.

Sherlock didn't want to insult these men. They had been very useful and unperturbed by unforeseen logistic problems. He looked around the table and nodded. "Please be advised, I am not unhappy with our projects so far, however, you are all capable of far more than I expected. I assumed that there would be fatigue issues as well as a bit of retraining necessary. That has not been the case in my opinion."

"Are you saying three old dogs have impressed the pup?" Herbert Rainer asked puffing out his chest slightly.

Sherlock deliberately formed a calculated smile. "I am."

Sherlock waited for the preening to subside before continuing. "I therefore feel that we are capable of moving on to the next phase. You can all handle yourselves quite admirably and frankly your talents are wasted on these small potato criminals. I never meant to bore you all. I didn't realize all of you could be the fruitful equivalent to men twenty years _your_ junior. Want to see some really exciting games?"

There was general assent at the suggestion.

Sherlock waited and softly added, "Could be dangerous?"

Grady winked at Sherlock. "I told you, he is exactly like his father, God rest his soul," he said to the others with a melancholy pride.

"My father was a great man. I would very much hate for him to accuse me of taking the path of anodyne progress. I leave the choice to you. You have far more experience than I. Shall we continue our painless little prickles or have we ended our boy's camp endeavors. Can you handle more?"

He got the response he hoped for and all of them exuded enthusiasm. If he weren't a sociopath, Sherlock might have felt a bit guilty fanning old men's egos in order to implement his own agenda, but playing by the rules had never suited him for long. It was time to move on to bigger tournaments that would actually do more to the web than pluck at the strings without getting the spiders attention. In the meantime, while he sent them in one direction, Sherlock intended to step up his own games. The humble gleaner may gather slowly, but combines were more efficient in cutting noticeable swaths in the vast fields.

* * *

Thank you dearly for the kind reviews and follows. Be sure to check out 'I think the cat is on fire' too - It's finished and has a bit of humor without wandering into the crack zone - and it is catlock but written in a way that isn't the average Cat fiction. Please do review - I tend to focus my time on what seems to have the most people waiting, so consider it like a vote that says "we want this one updated the most"


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